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THE  HOME-COMING  OF  CONRAD 


THE    HOUSE   OF 
CONRAD 


BY 


ELIAS   TOBENKIN 

AUTHOR  OF  *^WITTE  ARRIVES" 


Of  suns  and  worlds  I've  nothing  to  be  quoted; 
How  men  torment  themselves,  is  all  I've  noted. 

— Goethe's  Faust 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  iqi8,  by 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 


AU  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  MOTHER 


7988G2 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
GOTTFRIED  CONRAD 

CHAPTKR  PAGB 

I  Vesper  Bells 3 

II  Freddy  Recalls 18 

III  The  Web  of  Life 35 

IV  As  the  Years  Rolled  On 50 

V  The  Return  or  Conrad 63 

VI  Desires 80 

VII  A  Country  Girl 94 

VIII  Fred  Makes  A  Speech Ill 

IX  Elsie 121 

BOOK  II 
FRED  CONRAD 

X    Fred  Speaks  His  Mind 137 

XI    When  the  Light  is  Low 157 

XII    The  Measure  of  Fred  Conrad  .     .     .     .170 

XIII  KoLB  Quotes  Faust 179 

XIV  The  Widow 199 

XV    The  Hand  of  Bill  Triggs 217 

XVI    Prison 225 

XVII    Peace 245 

BOOK  III 
RUTH  CONRAD 

XVIII    With  the  Eyes  of  Youth 265 

XIX    The  Song  of  the  Flesh 276 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX    Clipped  Wings 301 

XXI    GoTTPRiED  Ruminates 319 

XXII    The  Death  of  Fred  Conrad  .     .     .     .     .342 

BOOK  IV 

THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

XXIII    The  Housewarming 369 


BOOK  I 
GOTTFRIED  CONRAD 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

CHAPTER  I 

VESPER  BELLS 

SHE  stood  in  the  open  doorway  listening  to  the  peal  of 
the  church  bells,  which  were  summoning  the  residents 
of  New  York's  young  German  colony,  Kleindeutschland,  to 
Sunday  service.  A  mild  June  breeze  was  sweeping  in  invis- 
ible ripples  through  the  atmosphere.  From  a  vacant  lot  upon 
which  grass  had  grown  a  foot  high,  a  faint  odor  of  unmown 
hay  rose  to  her  nostrils  and  in  its  wake  came  memories  — 
memories  of  home  drilhen,  of  her  village  over  there  on  the 
bank  of  the  Rhine. 

*'  Drilhen! "  Her  lips  barely  moved  as  she  spoke  the 
word.  "  Over  there!  "  Her  wistful  eyes  pierced  the  haze 
that  hovered  in  front  of  her  like  a  canvas.  The  ringing  of 
the  bells  became  indistinct.  .  .  .  Her  home  rose  before  her 
eyes.  .  .  .  The  village,  the  Rhine  —  Old  Father  Rhine  — 

Along  the  unpaved  street  leading  to  the  church  the  villagers 
were  moving  in  family  clusters.  In  one  of  these  groups  she 
recognized  a  girl  friend.  She  was  about  to  wave  to  her,  but 
she  caught  herself :  it  was  not  seemly.  Her  father  was  choos- 
ing his  way  carefully  along  the  street  and  was  keeping  a 
sharp  eye  on  his  children  to  see  that  they  did  likewise.  He 
could  think  of  nothing  more  sacrilegious  than  to  enter  the 
House  of  God  with  dusty  boots.  Dear  old  Father!  She  no- 
ticed how  small  their  family  circle  had  grown:  two  of  her 

3 


4  1'HE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

brothers  had  left  home.  And  she  —  she  too  would  be  going 
soon  to  America,  to  him  — 

"  AchI "  She  woke  from  her  reveries  with  a  shrug. 
"  Dreams,  vain  dreams."  All  this  was  over  now  —  forever. 
She  was  not  home,  not  in  the  Old  World,  not  on  the  Rhine  — 
but  in  New  York,  in  America.  She  was  no  longer  a  carefree 
girl,  no  longer  Annchen  Launitz.  Now  she  was  Anna  Con- 
radi  —  Frau  Conradi  to  her  German  countrywomen,  and 
Mrs.  Conrad  to  her  Irish  neighbors.  Yes,  she  was  a  wife  and 
a  mother.  There,  in  the  crib,  lay  her  child,  her  two  weeks' 
old  son,  who  had  not  been  baptized —  May  the  Lord  be 
merciful!  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  turned  to  her  husband.  Gottfried  was  obsti- 
nate. Ach,  those  Prussians,  those  Prussians,  how  intense  they 
were,  how  stubborn!     Nevertheless  she  would  try  once  more 

—  to-day.  He  was  in  such  a  festive  mood  —  perhaps  he 
would  yield  to  her.     He  did  yield  to  her  wishes  on  occasions 

—  he  loved  her  so.  She  would  appeal  to  him,  tell  him  how 
it  would  grieve  her,  would  give  her  no  rest  to  have  their  child 
go  through  life  —  a  heathen. 

The  tears  —  they  were  coming  readily  since  her  confine- 
ment—  welled  up  in  her  eyes.  She  stepped  back  from  the 
door  lest  she  be  seen  weeping,  and  going  over  to  where  the 
crib  stood,  she  bent  over  her  sleeping  infant  and  kissed  him 
lightly.  Her  husband's  footsteps  sounded  far  down  the  hall. 
She  wiped  her  eyes  and  face  hastily. 

The  Conradi  household  was  young.  Gottfried  Conradi 
had  been  in  the  New  World  only  two  years.  He  arrived  in 
the  spring  of  1866  —  one  of  the  first  of  the  *'  Lassalleans  " 
to  come  to  America.  He  had  been  a  bookbinder  in  the  Old 
World.  But  the  Germans  in  New  York,  at  least  those  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact,  were  nearly  all  cigarmakers,  so  he 
started  in  to  learn  a  new  trade.     It  was  six  months  before 


VESPER  BELLS  5 

Gottfried  Conradi  was  earning  a  man's  pay.  He  was  eco- 
nomical, however,  and  in  spite  of  his  small  wages  —  he  aver- 
aged only  $9  a  week  —  he  managed  by  the  end  of  his  first 
year  to  save  up  passage  money  for  his  Annchen,  and  sent  for 
her  without  delay. 

She  arrived  on  a  Wednesday  in  July.  Gottfried  declared 
a  holiday  for  the  rest  of  the  week  and  proceeded  to  feather 
a  little  home  for  himself  and  his  sweetheart.  There  were 
plenty  of  "  nests  "  to  rent  in  Kleindeutschland,  and  they  all 
looked  alike  and  cost  about  the  same.  The  home  of  a  young 
couple  consisted  of  two  rooms,  or  rather  of  one  room,  a 
kitchen,  with  a  bedroom  built  in  at  the  farther  end.  A  rear 
flat  cost  six  dollars  a  month;  a  front  flat  was  a  dollar  a 
month  higher.  Conradi  took  a  rear  flat.  It  was  cheaper, 
and  Annchen  liked  it  even  better.  For  the  windows  in  the 
rear  flat  looked  out  into  the  yard,  and  into  other  people's 
yards.  Some  of  these  yards  had  grass,  and  here  and  there 
even  a  tree,  while  the  street  had  nothing  but  cobblestones  and 
dirt. 

The  furnishings  of  the  room  were  simple.  They  consisted 
of  a  bed,  a  table,  three  chairs,  a  second-hand  sofa,  and  a 
hand-made  cabinet  which  was  to  serve  as  a  dresser  and  a 
bookcase.  By  Friday  evening  the  little  home  was  in  order 
and  Conradi  and  his  bride  of  a  few  hours  moved  into  it. 

It  was  into  this  home  that  their  first-born  had  come  the 
last  day  of  May,  1868.  That  Sunday  afternoon  the  little 
flat  was  to  be  the  scene  of  a  celebration  the  exact  nature  of 
which  Conradi  had  surrounded  with  much  mystery  and 
secrecy.  He  was  planning  to  surprise  his  wife.  It  was  to 
be  their  day  of  days.  That  afternoon  the  "  House  of  Con- 
radi "  was  to  be  founded  in  the  New  World  —  was  to  be 
formally  launched.  It  was  to  be  a  day  of  dedication.  The 
"  House  of  Conradi,"  as  personified  in  his  two  weeks'  old 


6  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

son,  was  to  be  dedicated  to  the  "  Cause."  Gottfried's  eyes 
filled  with  a  haze  every  time  he  thought  of  this  future  House 
of  his,  what  it  would  stand  for,  what  it  would  mean  to  the 
cause  of  the  proletariat  in  America. 

His  wife  had  asked  him  daily  since  the  child  was  bom 
what  he  intended  to  name  the  boy.  But  that,  too,  he  kept  a 
secret.     That  afternoon  it  would  all  come  out. 

All  morning  he  had  been  busy  trying  to  supplement  his 
meager  household  for  the  occasion.  He  had  borrowed  chairs 
from  one  of  the  neighbors  and  spoons  from  another.  He 
had  provided  himself  with  half  a  dozen  glasses  and  extra 
plates.  The  refreshments  were  properly  cared  for.  The  bot- 
tles of  beer  were  carefully  laid  out  in  the  washtub,  which 
served  as  an  ice-box  for  the  occasion.  But  the  ice  had  melted 
sooner  than  Gottfried  calculated  it  would  and  he  had  gone 
down  to  look  for  an  iceman.  He  returned  presently  with  a 
pailful  of  ice. 

"  There,  that  will  hold  them,"  he  said,  rising  and  straight- 
ening himself  out.  He  had  arranged  the  pieces  of  ice  in  the 
washtub  to  his  entire  satisfaction.  He  now  looked  up  at  his 
wife.  In  the  excitement  of  the  preparations  for  the  day's 
event  he  had  hardly  noticed  her  all  morning.  She  could  not 
be  of  any  help  to  him,  as  she  was  still  weak,  so  he  went 
about  arranging  things  alone. 

"What  now?  "  he  asked  abruptly,  as  he  perceived  traces 
of  tears  in  Anna's  eyes.  She  was  not  strong  enough  to  hide 
successfully  her  troubled  mind,  and  broke  down  under  his 
searching  gaze. 

"  Gottfried  — "  She  took  a  step  forward,  but  halted. 
"  Gottfried,  I  —  I  thought  —  perhaps  —  maybe  you  would 
change  your  mind  about  —  baptizing  the  child  —  I  — " 

The  gleam,  hard  and  irritated,  that  came  into  his  eyes 
froze  the  words  in  her  throat. 


VESPER  BELLS  7 

"  Was?  "  he  hissed.  "  You  want  a  priest,  ein  Pfaff,  here 
in  my  house?     I,  have  my  son  baptized?     Absurd!  " 

She  made  no  attempt  to  stem  his  words,  which  came  in 
torrents.  What!  Had  all  his  harangues  with  her  been  in 
vain  ?  She  still  failed  to  understand  him  1  And  he  thought 
he  had  made  it  plain  to  her!  He  was  through  with  the 
church,  with  priests,  forever  through !  He  wanted  her  to  re- 
member this.  They  were  through  with  that  humbug  —  they, 
the  Lassalleans.  They  were,  in  fact,  the  sworn  enemies  of 
priestcraft,  they,  the  socialists.  That  was  what  they  had  or- 
ganized the  Freidenkerverein  of  New  York  for  —  to  fight 
against  religion,  against  the  influence  of  the  priests,  who  were 
seeking  to  instil  in  the  New  World  the  same  religious  poisons 
that  had  festered  the  Old.  Enlightenment  —  that  was  what 
the  Free-thinking  Society  of  New  York  was  aiming  at.  They 
would  enlighten  the  people  about  the  clergy.  They  would 
show  the  masses  how  priestcraft  at  all  times  and  in  all  coun- 
tries had  ranged  itself  on  the  side  of  the  exploiters  and  against 
the  workers,  against  the  common  man.  They,  the  disciples 
of  Ferdinand  Lassalle  in  the  New  World,  would  not  rest  until 
the  spooks  of  religion  had  been  driven  off  the  earth.  He 
baptize  his  son!  How  could  such  a  thought  enter  her 
mind! 

"  But,"  he  continued  after  some  time,  and  his  voice  lost  its 
harshness,  "  I  thought,  Annchen,  you  understood  it  long  ago. 
I  explained  it  all  to  you  —  it  is  so  simple.  We  revolutionists 
are  fighting  the  old  order  of  things.  The  church,  the  priests, 
are  the  pillars  of  this  order,  its  chief  support,  its  greatest 
source  of  strength.  They  are  the  worst  enemies  of  the  pro- 
letariat.    Do  you  see,  Liebchen?  " 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  her  large,  liquid  eyes,  which 
seemed  even  larger  now  since  her  confinement.  Her  face  was 
thinner,  much  thinner,  and  pale.     Her  lips  were  bloodless. 


8  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

But  her  braids  of  golden  hair  which  twined  themselves  about 
her  head  were  as  alluring  as  ever. 

"  My  poor,  dear  Annchen !  "  he  murmured,  taking  her  in 
his  arms.  "  Don't  worry  your  little  head  about  these  things. 
It  will  all  come  out  right.     Just  leave  it  to  me." 

He  picked  her  up  like  a  child  —  he  was  a  head  taller  than 
his  wife  —  and  carried  her  to  the  sofa.  He  noticed  how 
frail  she  had  grown  and  was  seized  with  pity  for  her.  He 
sat  down  beside  her,  took  her  blond  head  into  his  lap  and 
played  with  her  hair. 

The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close  and  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
Conradi  home  the  shadows  were  gathering.  But  the  guests 
who  came  to  participate  in  the  celebration  had  no  thought  of 
leaving.  They  were  all  of  an  age  with  Gottfried,  all  under 
twenty-five.  That  the  noise  they  were  making  and  the  strain 
of  the  day  might  have  been  too  much  for  the  convalescing 
Mrs.  Conradi  never  entered  their  heads.  They  were  thought- 
ful, sensitive,  and  considerate  men,  but  in  such  matters  they 
were  still  inexperienced. 

"  That  was  well  done,"  said  Heinrich  Kolb  to  Mrs.  Con- 
radi upon  entering,  and  shook  hands  with  her  much  too 
heartily  for  her  still  raw  frame.  "It  is  good  of  you  to  have 
given  Gottfried  a  son.  We  shall  need  boys  in  this  country 
for  our  work.  There  is  a  great  struggle  ahead  and  we  shall 
need  men  —  fighters." 

Heinrich  Kolb  was  the  most  intellectual  man  in  the  small 
group  of  socialists  who  carried  the  theories  of  Lassalle  to  the 
New  World.  He  was  the  son  of  a  landowner  in  Silesia  and 
was  a  student  at  the  University  of  Berlin  at  the  time  Lassalle 
organized  the  Universal  German  Workmen's  Association. 
His  enthusiastic  praise  of  the  new  labor  organization  was 
not  looked  upon  with  favor  by  the  University  authorities,  but 


VESPER  BELLS  9 

Kolb  gave  them  the  slip,  as  he  expressed  it,  by  throwing  his 
academic  career  overboard  and  becoming  a  labor  agitator. 
With  a  number  of  other  Lassalleans  he  drifted  to  Switzerland, 
where  the  propaganda  of  socialism  was  given  greater  free- 
dom than  in  the  Fatherland.  But  here,  too,  Kolb  found 
himself  hemmed  in  by  too  many  limitations.  The  field  was 
too  narrow.  His  mind's  eye  looked  longingly  toward  the 
New  World,  and  one  fine  day  he  boarded  one  of  the  pioneer 
steamers  of  the  time  for  New  York.  It  was  on  this  steamer 
that  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Gottfried  Conradi,  an  ac- 
quaintance which  was  to  ripen  into  a  lifelong  friendship, 
despite  the  disparity  in  the  standing,  character,  and  educa- 
tion of  the  two. 

For  Conradi  at  that  time  had  no  more  than  the  rudiments 
of  an  education.  He  could  read  and  WTite,  knew  a  smatter- 
ing of  history  and  with  this  his  education  ended.  What  at- 
tracted Kolb  to  Conradi  was  the  fact  that,  like  himself,  Gott- 
fried was  a  Prussian  and  could  become  enthusiastic  and  hate 
with  the  intensity  of  a  Prussian.  While  Conradi  was  trav- 
eling through  the  Rhine  provinces  as  a  journeyman,  he  had 
attended  several  meetings  called  by  the  Universal  German 
Workmen's  Association.  At  one  of  these  meetings  he  had 
heard  Ferdinand  Lassalle  speak;  and  the  influence  of  the 
man  never  left  him  from  that  moment.  He  read  all  the 
socialist  pamphlets  he  could  find,  and  while  he  knew  noth- 
ing of  political  economy  Gottfried  nevertheless  was  thor- 
oughly familiar  with  Lassalle's  "  iron  law  of  wages  "  and  the 
bearing  this  iron  law  had  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  working 
class. 

Kolb  was  convinced  that  he  had  found  in  the  Prussian 
workman  an  ally  in  the  cause  of  socialism  of  uncommon  worth 
and  power.  An  intimate  friendship  grew  up  between  them. 
For  years  Kolb  looked  after  the  education  of  Conradi,  di- 


10  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

rected  his  reading,  was  initiating  him  into  every  branch  of 
knowledge  with  which  he  himself  was  familiar. 

Mrs.  Conradi  accepted  the  congratulations  of  Heinrich 
Kolb  with  a  happy  smile.  She  was  never  quite  able  to  fol- 
low Kolb.  He  was  such  a  handsome  man  and  so  well  edu- 
cated. His  gait,  his  carriage,  was  that  of  a  nobleman. 
Several  girls  in  the  colony  were  casting  longing  eyes  at  him; 
but  he  seemed  oblivious  to  feminine  charms.  In  his  eyes 
there  was  always  a  pursuing  gaze  —  not,  however,  for  the 
objects  near  at  hand,  but  for  things  far  off,  unseen,  intangible. 
Mrs.  Conradi  was  glad  to  see  Kolb.  She  was  proud  that 
her  husband  should  know  such  a  man,  should  count  him  as 
a  friend. 

The  other  five  men  were  cigarmakers  with  whom  Gottfried 
worked.  They  were  all  unmarried  and  were  frequent  visitors 
at  the  Conradi  home,  which  they  regarded  rather  worship- 
fully.  They  had  not  yet  found  their  love.  Each  of  them 
had  brought  with  him  half  a  dozen  of  the  finest  Havanas 
he  could  make,  as  his  contribution  to  the  day's  festivities. 

The  cake  and  fruit  had  been  eaten  and  the  beer  was  drunk 
between  volleys  of  speech  and  strains  of  full-throated  song 
that  rolled  and  thrilled  and  defied  its  way  out  of  the  little 
flat,  and  the  confines  of  their  own  tenement  walls,  into  the 
neighboring  houses.  The  strong,  massive  voices  brought  the 
neighbors  to  the  windows  to  see  whence  these  strains  of  song 
came  and-  what  the  occasion  was. 

"  Ich  will  die  Freiheit  nicht  verkaufcn,"  they  sang  lustily. 
No!  Never  would  they  bow  to  a  tyrant,  never  betray,  never 
sell  Freedom.  .  .  .  And  then  Heinrich  Kolb  spoke.  The 
"  springtime  of  nations  "  which  inspired  this  revolutionary 
hymn  of  Herwegh's  had  been  crushed  in  Germany  by  reac- 
tion. But  a  new  Volkerfriihling  was  coming.  This  newer 
springtime  of  nations  would  be  ushered  in  by  the  proletariat. 


VESPER  BELLS  ii 

It  would  be  ushered  in  on  American  soil.  America  was  to 
be  the  new  Jerusalem  of  the  working  classes.  The  New 
World  had  long  ago  rid  itself  of  kings ;  it  would  be  the  first 
to  rid  itself  of  economic  injustice  and  capitalist  oppression. 
And  it  was  up  to  them  who  had  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  "  Mes- 
siah of  the  working  class  "  to  let  their  voices  be  heard  here. 
They,  the  Lassalleans,  must  be  the  first  to  raise  the  banner 
of  the  social  revolution  in  the  New  World. 

No  one  noticed  when  Kolb  ceased  speaking,  but  all  sud- 
denly found  themselves  singing  the  martial  strains  of  the 
Banner  Song: 

"  Up,  and  let  the  banner  wave, 
Hosts  of  toilers,  rise  in  mass! 
Be  ye  victors,  or  in  death 
Guard  the  banner  of  your  class." 

Yes,  they  would  hold  the  banner  of  the  proletariat  high! 
They  would  defend  it  to  a  man,  they,  the  Lassalleans.  It 
was  Gottfried  speaking.  He  stood  up  the  length  of  his  full 
six  feet,  and  he  stood  there  tense,  rigid,  towering  above  his 
guests.  Mrs.  Conradi  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
waving  the  smoke  away  from  her  child's  face.  As  her  hus- 
band's speech  became  more  fluent  and  incisive  her  cheeks 
flushed.  She  listened  to  him  with  palpitating  heart.  She 
did  not  understand  all  he  was  saying;  it  sounded  strange  to 
her.  Where  did  he  get  so  much  knowledge,  such  a  gift  of 
speech,  she  wondered.  She  was  recalling  how  he  came  into 
her  life,  their  first  meeting. 

He  came  to  their  village  a  wandering  mechanic  and  found 
work  with  a  neighbor  of  theirs,  a  book-binder.  They  met  — 
they  could  not  help  meeting  —  he  passed  their  house  several 
times  daily.  Once  he  asked  for  a  flower  and  they  talked. 
And  after  that  she  was  his.  She  loved  him  from  the  first. 
She  could  not  resist  him.     Ah,  what  a  lover  he  was ! 


12  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Her  father  objected  to  him  at  first.  A  son  of  the  Rhine, 
old  Launitz  did  not  like  the  Prussians.  But  he  gave  in  to 
her:  he  had  to.  She  told  him  she  could  not  live  v^^ithout 
Gottfried.  Conradi  did  not  cherish  the  idea  of  going  into 
the  army  for  three  years  and  leaving  her  alone.  So  he  went 
to  America  and  she  followed  him  after  a  year.  But  what  a 
change  had  taken  place  in  him  during  that  year!  What 
bitterness  had  come  over  him !  Gottfried  was  always  hating 
now,  always  denouncing  some  one,  something:  the  rich,  his 
employers,  the  government.  What  was  it  that  was  eating 
his  heart  away?  Was  it  disappointment  with  the  New 
World,  disillusionment?  She,  too,  was  disillusioned.  She 
was  missing  the  village,  their  home  with  the  flowers  and  trees 
and  the  bench  in  front  of  it.  She  was  missing  these  things 
greatly.  Was  it  this  that  was  troubling  her  husband,  too? 
But,  no,  it  was  something  more !  That  alone  could  not  make 
Gottfried  so  unhappy.  Were  they  not  treating  him  right  at 
the  shop  —  he  was  so  bitter  against  employers  ? 

Her  husband's  voice  meantime  had  risen  higher  and 
higher  and  his  eyes  had  assumed  a  fierce,  threatening  blaze. 
He  was  assailing,  denouncing,  reviling,  the  capitalists,  the 
priests,  the  church.  He  was  speaking  of  a  new  religion,  hail- 
ing a  new  god,  the  god  of  vengeance,  the  god  of  fury,  who 
would  wipe  out  old  scores  between  oppressors  and  op- 
pressed. .  .  . 

"  We  are  on  the  eve  of  great  events  in  this  country,"  Con- 
radi said,  and  was  followed  by  the  breathless  attention  of 
every  one  present.  "  We  have  just  seen  the  close  of  a  civil 
war  that  has  put  an  end  to  human  slavery  forever.  Many 
German  immigrants  have  distinguished  themselves  in  this 
war.  They  have  given  freely  of  their  blood  that  the  shackles 
of  the  black  slaves  might  be  broken  forever. 

"  But,"  and  his  voice  vibrated  with  fierce  eloquence,  "  there 


VESPER  BELLS  13 

is  another  slavery  in  this  country,  an  economic  slavery,  cap- 
italist slavery.  Another  war  is  coming,  a  war  upon  this 
newer  slavery.  The  workers  are  recruiting  their  legions. 
We  Germans,  we  Lassalleans,  must  be  in  the  forefront  in  this 
coming  struggle  of  right  against  might.  In  this  struggle 
against  capitalism  one  of  the  fortresses  first  to  be  demolished 
is  religion.  The  church,  priestcraft,  is  as  strong  in  the  New 
World  to-day  as  it  is  in  the  Old,  and  it  must  go.  We  must 
defy  priestcraft  not  merely  with  words,  but  with  deeds. 
Here  " —  with  a  wave  of  his  arms  he  pointed  to  the  crib 
where  his  two  weeks'  old  son  was  slumbering  peacefully. 
"  Here,"  he  began  once  more;  but  his  speech  was  broken  by 
the  wild,  terrified  look  with  which  his  wife  stared  at  him. 

Anna  had  listened  to  her  husband's  speech  with  growing 
horror.  She  did  not  mind  his  denunciations  of  the  rich  and 
the  powerful.  She  knew  that  America  was  a  free  country, 
that  one  could  speak  one's  mind  here  and  not  be  bothered  by 
the  police,  not  be  arrested.  But  when  Gottfried  began  speak- 
ing without  the  slightest  restraint,  or  the  least  reverence,  about 
the  church,  about  God,  it  was  the  last  straw.  She  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  She  would  have  cried  out,  but  her  voice  failed 
her. 

Anna  never  grasped  her  husband's  irreligion.  She  could 
not  follow  him  in  his  fierce  hatred  of  the  church  and  the 
clergy.  On  the  other  hand,  she  could  not  combat  it.  She 
could  not  argue  with  Gottfried.  Mentally  she  was  a  child 
compared  to  him. 

When  Gottfried  pointed  to  the  crib,  to  their  son,  in  the 
midst  of  his  vituperations  against  the  church,  against  the 
Deity,  a  terrible  fear  seized  her  —  fear  for  her  child.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  her  husband  would  draw  down  the  wrath 
of  Heaven  momentarily,  and  that  this  wrath  would  strike 
her  infant.  .  .  .  Her  husband  was  drawing  down  Calamity 


14  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

upon  their  child.  .  .  .  She  stood  speechless,  paralyzed  with 
terror  and  pain. 

What  her  voice  refused  to  do,  however,  her  eyes  did.  They 
had  spoken.  The  look  of  agony,  of  wild  alarm,  in  them  had 
broken  her  husband's  flow  of  oratory.  The  men  in  the  room 
sensed  the  awkward  situation.  Kolb  was  about  to  rise  and 
go  over  to  Mrs.  Conradi  to  explain  to  her,  to  calm  and  assure 
her,  but  Gottfried  waved  him  to  remain  in  his  seat. 

Conradi  could  not  again  master  his  eloquence,  but  he  was 
still  master  of  his  defiance.  In  a  few  sharp,  provocative  sen- 
tences he  announced  that  he  was  here  and  then  dedicating 
his  young  son  to  the  cause  of  the  proletariat,  that  his  child 
would  be  a  living  defiance  to  the  church  and  priestcraft  — 
he  would  go  unbaptized!  This  son  of  his  which  he  was 
dedicating  to  "  the  Cause  "  would  be  named  after  their  great 
leader  and  teacher,  the  torch-bearer  of  socialism  and  free- 
dom —  Ferdinand  Lassalle. 

A  shout  of  joy  came  from  every  breast.  Everybody  now 
rushed  over  to  Anna  to  congratulate  her.  In  the  hubbub  that 
arose  the  child  awoke  and  as  she  lifted  him  out  of  the  crib 
every  one  of  the  men  took  a  swift  look  at  the  wrinkled,  cry- 
ing face  with  mingled  feelings  of  humility  and  reverence. 
In  an  instant  Conradi  had  risen  in  their  eyes,  and  his  child 
with  him. 

Anna  meantime  was  hugging  the  infant  and  muttering  un- 
der her  breath,  *'  Fritzi,  Fritzchen,  Lieber  Fritzchen."  She 
was  in  ecstasy.  At  last  her  child  had  a  name ;  she  could  now 
call  him,  talk  to  him. 

The  noise  and  excitement  which  arose  was  not  at  all 
in  accord  with  Conradi's  plan.  His  speech  was  only  half 
finished;  there  were  other  things  he  wanted  to  say.  He 
wanted  to  tell  them  that  he  was  here  and  then  founding  the 
"  House  of  Conradi "  on  American  soil,  that  he  meant  that 


VESPER  BELLS  15 

house,  his  house,  to  stand  for  great  things  in  the  life  of  the 
American  proletariat,  that  he  would  make  the  House  of 
Conradi  a  house  of  defiance,  a  house  of  revolt,  a  house  that 
would  value  freedom  above  all.  .  .  . 

But  he  was  not  allowed  to  finish  his  speech.  He  had 
spoken  too  long  already.  Every  one  of  his  guests  was  clamor- 
ing for  expression.  Their  hearts  were  brimming  over. 
Even  speech  now  seemed  a  slow,  inadequate  vehicle  for  their 
overpowering  emotions.  They  vibrated  with  song.  They 
said  not  a  word,  but  some  one  started  a  tune  and  in  an  in- 
stant they  were  singing  loudly,  wildly,  passionately,  Hein- 
rich  Heine's  "  Silesian  Weavers." 

"  A  curse  on  the  God  to  whom  vainly  we  prayed 
From  pangs  of  hunger  and  winter's  cold  — " 

They  hurled  out  anathema  as  if  the  God  whom  they  were 
thus  menacing  were  there  in  person,  were  offering  resistance. 

"  A  cuxse  on  the  king,  the  king  of  the  rich, 
Who  was  deaf  to  our  anguish,  who  scorned  our  pain  — " 

It  seemed  as  if  the  walls  would  give  way  to  the  pressure 
of  the  fierce  volume  of  song. 

The  neighbors  from  the  tenement  house  opposite  were  at 
the  windows  peering  across  the  yard  into  the  Conradi  flat, 
more  amazed  than  ever.  No  one  noticed  this,  however. 
The  men  sang  not  only  with  their  lungs  but  with  their  aching, 
homesick  hearts. 

"  We're  weaving,  we're  weaving !  " 

The  last  quivering  line  of  the  triple  curse  of  the  "  Silesian 
Weavers  "  was  dying  in  the  fast  falling  shadows  of  the  night, 
when  the  bells  in  the  church  directly  around  the  corner  from 
the  Conradi  tenement  began  to  peal  their  summons  to  vespers. 
An  instant  silence  fell  over  all.    Place  and  distance  seemed 


i6  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

obliterated.  Exactly  thus  church  bells  were  now  pealing 
their  vesper  call  in  the  villages  of  Bavaria,  in  Mecklenburg, 
on  the  Rhine.  The  thought  of  home,  parents,  friends,  flitted 
through  the  minds  of  every  one.  .  .  .  And  of  the  church,  the 
dear  old  village  church  in  the  shadow  of  whose  oaks  they 
played  as  boys.  Their  hatred  of  priestcraft,  bellowed  out  so 
fiercely  a  few  minutes  earlier,  somehow  did  not  seem  to 
apply  to  this  church  of  their  childhood.  The  vesper  sounds 
now  seemed  to  have  lost  all  significance  as  messengers  of 
religion.  The  ringing  of  the  bells  fell  on  their  ears  softly, 
reminiscently,  like  memories  of  childhood.  It  went  to  the 
heart  like  a  parent's  blessing  — 

"  O  bells  of  folly,  bells  of  creed, 
How  sweetly  you  resound  home !  " 

Anna  lit  the  lamp.  The  shadows  were  gone  and  with 
them  the  memories.  Every  one  rose  to  his  feet.  Each  of 
the  guests  shook  hands  with  Gottfried  and  his  wife  heartily. 
But  there  was  also  a  slight  embarrassment  in  the  leave-taking. 
For  each  felt  that  he  had  been  just  a  little  soft  toward  the 
end,  a  trifle  sentimental.  He  did  not  mean  to  be  so,  but  he 
could  not  help  it.  In  fact,  he  knew  he  would  go  on  being 
sentimental  the  rest  of  the  evening.  It  was  a  moonlight 
night  —  he  would  go  to  his  room  and  read  Heine  or  play 
the  concertina.  .  .  . 

When  the  dishes  were  cleared  away  and  Anna  Conradi, 
thoroughly  worn  out  by  the  noise  and  excitement  of  the  day, 
sought  the  old  sofa  and  lay  down  for  a  brief  rest,  Gottfried 
came  up  quietly.  He  bent  over  her,  brought  his  face  close 
to  hers,  kissed  her  fervently,  passionately,  and  began  speak- 
ing. At  first  he  spoke  in  broken  sentences.  Then  —  then 
he  was  making  a  speech  to  her,  the  speech  he  had  meant  to 


VESPER  BELLS  17 

make  that  afternoon  —  about  the  "  House  of  Conradi,"  about 
their  son  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  about  his  future.  All  defiance 
had  left  him.  There  was  no  hatred  in  his  voice,  no  bitter- 
ness, only  a  sadness  and  a  longing,  an  immense  yearning. 
He  was  painting  to  her  the  "  House  of  Conradi."  And  it 
sounded  wonderful,  like  a  fairy  tale.  It  was  to  be  a  house 
of  brave  and  honest  men,  a  house  that  would  be  respected  by 
Americans  and  would  be  looked  up  to  with  envy  and  admira- 
tion by  their  countrymen. 

His  voice  grew  husky.  He  could  not  go  on.  He  sought 
his  wife's  face.  But  her  cheeks,  too,  were  wet  with  tears. 
She  had  been  crying  for  some  time  without  his  noticing  it. 
She  was  happy. 


CHAPTER  II 

FREDDY   RECALLS 

THE  name  Ferdinand  Lassalle  which  Gottfried  Con- 
radi  bestowed  upon  his  infant  son  amid  much  solem- 
nity and  vehemence,  was  short-lived.  When  on  a  morning  in 
the  latter  part  of  June  his  wife  ventured  out  into  the  yard 
with  the  three  weeks'  old  baby,  her  Irish  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Maguire,  who  lived  on  the  floor  below,  rushed  up  and  began 
showering  compliments  at  her  and  cooing  to  the  tiny  young- 
ster. 

"  And  what  be  ye  calling  him,  Mrs.  Conrad?  "  she  asked, 
all  smiles. 

"  Fer-di-"  Anna  started  to  pronounce  the  name  slowly. 

"  Freddy,"  Mrs.  Maguire  snapped,  giving  her  no  chance 
to  finish.  She  was  familiar  with  her  German  neighbor's 
linguistic  failings.  Anna  was  frequently  misplacing  her 
vowels  and  splitting  her  English  words  into  syllables.  The 
Irish  woman  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  Freddy  that 
Mrs.  Conradi  had  meant  to  say. 

"Freddy,"  Mrs.  Maguire  went  on  with  enthusiasm; 
"  that's  a  fine  American  name.  I'm  glad.  I  was  afraid  you 
might  name  him  Fritz  or  Hans  or  some  other  foreign  name 
which  is  no  good  in  this  country.  But  Freddy  is  a  nice 
name.  I  have  a  nephew  by  that  name,  Fred  O'Rourke.  He 
is  a  roundsman  for  this  district,  as  fine  a  police  officer  as 
you  ever  saw." 

Mrs.  Maguire's  two  little  girls,  who  for  some  time  had 

i8 


FREDDY  RECALLS  19 

vainly  sought  to  gain  their  mother's  eye,  could  restrain  their 
hankering  no  longer  and  began  pulling  her  apron  and  asking 
that  they  be  allowed  to  see  the  baby.  Mrs.  Conradi  was 
pleased  by  the  eagerness  of  the  children.  Radiating  good 
nature,  she  lifted  the  bonnet  to  show  the  whole  of  the  child's 
face  and  head. 

"  There,  that's  little  Freddy,"  Mrs.  Maguire  was  saying 
to  her  youngsters  with  a  benign  voice  and  look,  as  if  in  giv- 
ing the  name  of  the  infant  she  was  making  a  present  of  some- 
thing very  precious  to  the  little  girls. 

It  was  this  offhand  christening  of  the  infant  by  the  Irish 
woman  that  in  the  course  of  events  was  to  take  precedence 
over  the  solemn  naming  of  the  child  by  his  father  on  that 
memorable  Sunday  afternoon.  Neither  Ferdinand,  which 
Anna  tried  to  call  her  infant,  nor  Lassalle,  which  Gottfried 
insisted  on  calling  him,  could  hold  their  own  beside  the  brief, 
crisp,  buoyant,  "  American "  Freddy.  For  Freddy,  like 
everything  else  that  emanated  from  Mrs.  Maguire,  at  once 
came  to  stand  in  Mrs.  Conradi 's  mind  for  the  Americanized 
version  of  her  son's  German  name.  True,  when  alone  with 
her  child,  when  holding  her  baby  close  to  her  breast,  or  when 
crooning  him  to  sleep,  Anna  would  speak  to  him  in  German, 
call  him  Fritzchen  and  Fritzi  and  Fritzli.  These  German 
diminutives  went  so  well  with  her  German  songs  and  lulla- 
bies, they  went  well  with  her  overflowing  maternal  emotions. 
But  in  the  yard,  in  the  street,  to  her  neighbors,  to  the  strange 
American  world  in  which  she  now  lived,  in  which  she  was 
trying  to  fit,  her  infant  son  was  Freddy,  Fred. 

And  to  fit  into  her  surroundings  Anna  was  trying  hard  — 
much  harder  than  her  husband.  She  had  to.  She  was  in 
fact  living  in  a  different  world  from  that  in  which  her  hus- 
band lived.  Kleindeutschland,  as  the  district  in  which  they 
lived  was  facetiously  called,  to  Gottfried  literally  was  a  Little 


20  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Germany.  He  worked  with  Germans.  In  the  cigar  factories 
only  an  occasional  English  word  or  phrase  crept  in,  the  rest 
was  all  German.  At  the  meetings  he  attended  German  was 
spoken.  To  Anna,  on  the  other  hand,  Kleindeutschland  was 
largely  a  misnomer.  Even  in  the  tenements  which  were  sup- 
posed to  constitute  the  heart  of  Little  Germany,  the  Irish 
tenants  were  still  in  the  majority.  The  exodus  of  the  Irish 
from  the  district  was  not  to  come  for  a  few  years  yet.  Mrs. 
Conradi  was  constantly  compelled  to  acquire  new  English 
words  and  phrases,  to  add  new  sentences,  new  combinations 
to  her  small  linguistic  collection.  When  no  one  was  about 
she  would  even  venture  to  speak  English  to  her  baby. 

One  Sunday  morning  as  she  was  busying  herself  pre- 
paring a  bottle  for  the  child  it  began  to  cry. 

"  In  a  minute,  Freddy  dear,"  she  sang  out  cheerily.  Her 
husband  heard  this. 

"  Where  do  you  get  this  Freddy  from  ?  "  Gottfried  asked, 
irritated.     "  His  name  is  Ferdinand  Lassalle." 

"  Freddy  —  that  is  English,"  his  wife  said  with  a  ravish- 
ing smile.  The  wrinkles  disappeared  from  Gottfried's  brow. 
She  was  so  much  of  a  child  herself  still;  she  was  so  irresist- 
ible, his  Anna. 

He  made  no  further  remonstrance  against  her  calling  their 
child  Freddy,  but  he  thought  about  it  often  in  the  weeks 
and  months  that  followed.  He  also  began  to  pay  more  at- 
tention to  the  progress  his  wife  was  making  in  the  acquisition 
of  the  English  language  and  customs.  He  noted  the  appear- 
ance of  several  distinctly  American  trinkets  in  the  house. 
Her  Irish  neighbors  were  reshaping  Anna's  mind.  At  times 
he  was  amazed  at  the  flexibility  of  her  tongue  and  vocal 
organs.  Anna  was  pronouncing  with  the  ease  of  a  native 
English  words  that  to  him  felt  like  a  disagreeable  mouthful. 

In  the  midst  of  such  brooding,  Gottfried  once  caught  sight 


FREDDY  RECALLS  21 

of  himself  in  the  mirror  and  was  not  a  little  shocked  by  his 
appearance.  His  face  was  stern.  There  was  no  trace  of 
the  boy  in  him  and  yet  he  was  scarcely  twenty-four.  His 
wife,  though  only  two  years  younger  than  himself,  looked 
like  a  little  girl  beside  him.  His  mustache  had  come  up 
rapidly  of  late  and  was  giving  him  a  much  older  appearance. 

Gottfried's  habit  of  persistent  reasoning  soon  crystallized 
his  vague  uneasiness  into  a  definite  fear.  He  was  fearing 
in  all  seriousness  for  his  Lassalle  (in  his  thoughts  Gottfried 
always  called  his  infant  Lassalle).  He  feared  the  influence 
of  the  Irish  neighbors  and  even  of  Anna  herself  upon  the 
child.  Anna  was  young  and  was  Americanizing  so  fast. 
She  would  carry  the  child  along  with  her;  that  was  to  be 
expected.  But  would  she  not  carry  him  too  far?  It  would 
be  terrible  to  have  barriers  between  himself  and  his  son, 
barriers  of  language  or  thought.  He  and  his  Lassalle  must 
be  as  one.  They  were  to  be  companions.  The  boy  was  to 
be  a  man  after  his  own  heart  —  not  narrow,  not  clannish. 

He  was  constantly  running  up  against  *'  American  narrow- 
ness and  clannishness."  The  New  World  was  so  intolerant 
of  the  newcomer.  It  was  forever  trying  to  remodel  him,  to 
pattern  him  after  its  own  fashion,  after  its  own  likes  and 
whims. 

He  was  himself  being  made  the  victim  of  this  intolerance 
by  the  New  World.  Thus  his  name  Conradi  was  now  being 
mutilated,  wiped  off.  Again  Mrs.  Maguire  was  at  the  root 
of  it.  She  would  not  bother  with  suffixes  and  insisted  on 
addressing  her  German  neighbor  as  Mrs.  Conrad.  Just  then 
gas  was  introduced  into  their  row  of  tenements.  Mrs.  Ma- 
guire, as  always,  made  herself  the  spokesman  for  her  Ger- 
man neighbor  and  gave  the  name  to  the  gasman  as  Conrad. 
That  was  decisive.  Letters  now  began  to  come,  and  adver- 
tisements, all  addressed  to  Conrad.     For  a  while  these  things 


22  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

infuriated  Gottfried.  Then  his  anger  gave  way  to  grief. 
It  simply  had  to  be  so  —  the  New  World  would  have  its  way. 

Little  by  little  the  name  Conradi  joined  the  name  Lassalle 
in  the  realm  of  family  heirlooms.  Only  among  his  intimates, 
the  charter  members  of  the  Freidenkerverein  and  the  like 
was  Gottfried  still  addressed  and  put  down  on  the  books 
by  that  name.  In  everyday  life  he  had,  like  his  wife  and 
son,  become  a  Conrad. 

While  Gottfried  Conrad  frequently  upbraided  America,  he 
was  himself  yielding  to  the  New  World  far  more  than  he 
suspected.  A  strange  restlessness  was  coming  over  him,  a 
restlessness  that  was  American  in  spirit,  American  in  its 
quickness,  energy  and  enterprise.  It  was  part  of  the  same 
restlessness  and  zeal  which  at  the  time  was  spurring  on  thou- 
sands of  men  both  natives  and  immigrants  to  heroic  pursuits 
of  wealth,  fortunes,  possessions;  part  of  the  spirit  which  was 
building  railroads  that  were  to  span  the  country  from  coast 
to  coast  and  was  dotting  the  broad  prairies  of  the  far  west 
with  cities  and  hamlets. 

This  spirit  which  Chicago  was  expressing  with  "  I  will  " 
and  which  others  had  expressed  with  "  Pike's  Peak  or  Bust," 
this  spirit  of  turbulent  energy  had  seized  Conrad  and  his 
group  of  Lassalleans,  and  was  given  expression  in  a  fiercely 
vigorous  agitation  they  were  carrying  on  against  capitalism, 
against  the  church,  against  their  employers.  In  a  short  time 
they  organized  the  "  Arbeiter  Liedertafel,"  the  "  Spread  Light 
Society,"  the  "  German  Workingmen's  Sick  Benefit  Society." 
They  were  now  planning  the  establishment '  of  a  German 
weekly  that  was  to  spread  the  ideas  of  socialism.  Heinrich 
Kolb  was  breaking  ground  for  the  paper. 

Conrad,  while  cooperating  with  Kolb  in  the  plans  for  a 
socialist  weekly,  was  carrying  on  single-handed  an  agitation 
for  a  subject  in  which  he  had  suddenly  developed  a  great 


FREDDY  RECALLS  23 

interest  —  cremation.  He  was  agitating  among  his  country- 
men for  the  establishment  of  a  "  German  Cremation  So- 
ciety." The  agitation  for  such  a  society  was  only  another 
phase  of  Conrad's  unremitting  hatred  of  Pfaffenthum. 
What  greater  blow  could  be  given  the  church  than  to 
eliminate  its  potency  in  one  of  its  important  fields  — 
burial ! 

While  Gottfried  was  ardently  addressing  audiences  of 
German  immigrants  on  the  benefits  of  cremation,  pointing 
out  to  them  how  much  more  scientific,  more  progressive,  it 
was  to  burn  the  dead  than  to  bury  them  in  the  fashion  pre- 
scribed by  the  church,  his  wife  was  making  ready  to  re- 
ceive a  new  life.  Anna  was  expecting  another  baby.  The 
child,  a  boy,  came  as  Freddy  was  rounding  out  his  second 
year. 

In  her  heart  Anna  was  trembling  lest  the  coming  of  the 
boy  spur  Gottfried  to  a  repetition  of  the  scene  on  the  Sunday 
when  he  named  and  dedicated  little  Freddy.  But  she  was 
spared  this.  A  few  days  before  the  arrival  of  the  baby, 
trouble  broke  out  in  the  shop  where  Gottfried  worked.  A 
new  system  of  dividing  up  the  work  had  been  installed  and 
this  sliced  off  the  wages  of  Gottfried  and  a  number  of  other 
men  by  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  week.  It  was  five  or  six 
weeks  before  the  difference  was  finally  adjusted.  Under 
these  circumstances  Gottfried  was  in  no  mood  for  celebra- 
tion. The  infant  was  quietly  named  Henry,  Conrad  letting 
slip  an  occasion  for  a  fresh  onslaught  on  the  church  and 
Pfaffenthum.  Anna  was  much  relieved  over  this  and 
guarded  against  saying  or  doing  anything  that  might  bring 
up  even  an  allusion  to  the  subject. 

In  after  years  Freddy  frequently  tried  to  recall  the  details 
of  the  accident  to  his  little  brother,  but  could  not.     With 


24  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

regard  to  the  first  events  of  the  catastrophe  his  mind  was  a 
blank.  What  he  did  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  was  a 
blinding  flash  of  terror  and  intelligence  that  in  a  moment 
destroyed  the  fairyland  of  childhood  in  which  he  lived,  and 
bared  his  vision  to  the  gray  world  of  realities  which  he  was 
to  know  henceforth. 

This  inability  to  recall  the  first  details  of  the  accident  that 
doomed  little  Henry,  an  accident  for  which  he  was  unwit- 
tingly responsible,  annoyed  Freddy  all  the  more  because  he 
did  remember  things  that  happened  months  previous  to  the 
accident.  He  recalled,  for  instance,  the  winter  mornings 
when  he  would  wake  to  the  pricking  odor  of  what  he  later 
came  to  recognize  as  smoke  and  before  opening  his  eyelids 
would  call,  "  Mama!  "  A  fumbling  like  that  of  one  getting 
up  would  follow  and  he  would  feel  his  mother's  arms  about 
him.  She  would  take  him  into  her  bed  and  snuggle  him  up 
close  to  her.  He  recalled  her  kisses  and  caresses,  her  soft 
arm  upon  which  he  loved  to  put  his  cheek  and  dream  with 
eyes  shut.  He  recalled  how  after  a  time  he  would  open  his 
eyes,  would  meet  the  ecstatic  gaze  of  his  mother,  would  ask 
where  Papa  was,  and  how  Mother  would  pucker  her  lips  in 
imitation  of  his  own,  and  would  tell  him  that  Father  had 
gone  to  work  long  since. 

All  this  which  had  taken  place  at  least  five  months  prior 
to  the  accident  to  little  Henry  he  recalled,  but  for  a  picture 
of  the  terrible  moment  of  wreck  and  ruin  to  his  brother  and 
to  his  family  he  could  go  only  to  his  mother's  incoherent 
memories.  It  was  evening.  Father  had  gone  to  a  meeting. 
Anna  recalled  that  she  had  neglected  her  breakfast  for  the 
next  day.  She  could  not  wait  until  her  husband's  return, 
Gottfried  would  come  too  late.  So  she  entrusted  little  Henry 
to  him,  to  Freddy,  warned  him  to  look  sharp  after  his  little 
brother  and  he  promised  to  do  so.     She  was  back  in  a  trice 


FREDDY  RECALLS  25 

—  but  the  thing  had  happened.  The  yard  was  filled  with 
screaming  women  and  children.  One  of  them  was  holding 
little  Henry.  The  child  looked  in  the  distance  like  a  red 
ball.  He  had  fallen  a  flight  and  a  half  of  stairs  to  the  base- 
ment, was  covered  with  blood  from  head  to  foot  and  was  un- 
conscious. 

From  then  on  Freddy  recalled  things  distinctly.  He  re- 
membered the  horror  in  his  father's  face;  for  Gottfried  had 
been  called  back  from  the  meeting  by  one  of  the  neighbors. 
He  recalled  the  sobs  and  hand-wringing  of  his  mother,  the 
tense  face  of  the  physician  and  the  hoarse  gasps  of  his  little 
brother.  His  father  was  holding  the  lamp,  his  mother  a 
candle.  Lamp  and  candle  were  moved  about  in  conformity 
with  the  orders  of  the  physician,  who  was  concentrating  the 
light  now  on  one,  now  on  another  part  of  the  child's  body 
which  he  was  tapping  and  sounding. 

At  this  point  his  memory  was  a  trifle  blurred.  But  he 
recalled  distinctly  the  visits  of  the  physician  in  the  weeks 
that  followed.  A  window  sill  had  been  set  aside  for  medi- 
cines. Upon  it  were  heaped  small  porcelain  jars  and  bot- 
tles, gauze,  bandages,  cotton.  The  house  smelled  of  medi- 
cine. Mother  moved  about  the  house  like  a  shadow,  weep- 
ing, always  weeping.  Father  stayed  home  evenings  now. 
But  he  seldom  played  with  or  even  talked  to  him.  Only 
once  after  days  and  days  in  which  he  seemed  to  have  com- 
pletely forgotten  his  little  son  did  Gottfried  take  Freddy  on 
his  knees.  The  child  was  overcome  with  happiness.  He 
took  hold  of  a  button  on  his  father's  vest  and  drew  Gott- 
fried's attention  to  himself. 

"Are  you  angry,  Papa?"  Freddy  asked.  He  had  often 
heard  his  mother  speak  so  to  Gottfried. 

His  father  was  fairly  lifted  out  of  his  chair  by  the  ques- 
tion.    "  No,  my  son,  I  am  not  angry,"  he  answered. 


26  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Freddy  leaned  his  cheek  against  his  father's  shoulder  and 
lay  quiet  for  a  long  time. 

Once  Freddy  observed  his  mother  holding  his  little  brother 
in  her  lap  and  studying  him  with  mournful  eyes.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  had  not  seen  little  Henry  walk  in  a 
long  time. 

"  Why  don't  he  walk,  Mama  ?  "  he  asked. 

Anna  answered  through  tears.  "He  can't  walk;  he  is 
sick." 

"  He  is  sick,"  the  child  repeated;  "  why  is  he  sick?  " 

"  Because  he  injured  his  spine." 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  as  if  this  cleared  matters,  and  he  rushed 
to  the  window  to  watch  the  rain  beat  against  the  panes. 

Several  days  later  Freddy  came  up  to  where  little  Henry 
lay  and  began  telling  him  a  story.  He  made  noises  and 
gestures,  the  kind  of  noises  and  gestures  that  ordinarily  would 
set  his  little  brother  giggling  and  clapping  his  hands,  but 
there  was  no  response  from  the  child  now,  not  an  exclama- 
tion, not  a  sound.     Freddy  turned  to  his  mother. 

"  Why  don't  he  laugh.  Mama?  " 

"  He  can't  laugh."     Anna  swallowed  hard. 

"  Because  he  injured  his  spine,"  he  said,  half  questioning, 
half  explaining. 

Anna  drew  him  up  to  her  and  clasped  him  in  her  arms. 

One  day  as  Freddy  was  sitting  on  the  floor  playing,  little 
Henry  emitted  a  strange  cry.  Freddy  looked  up  at  his 
mother  with  a  frightened,  questioning  gaze.  It  was  not  his 
little  brother's  wonted  cry.  It  was  more  like  the  lowing  of 
a  little  beast  in  pain.  Anna  noticed  the  expression  in  her 
son's  face  and  turned  aside  to  wipe  her  tears. 

The  doctor  was  agonizingly  indefinite  about  the  child's 
condition.  Would  little  Henry  get  well?  He  might;  such 
things  happen.     How  soon  might  he  get  well?     That  he 


FREDDY  RECALLS  27 

could  not  tell;  no  one  could.  Would  the  child  be  in  this 
imbecile  condition  a  year?  Oh,  yes,  surely.  Might  he  re- 
main in  that  state  for  many  years?  He  might.  Might  he 
never  recover  from  it?     That,  too,  was  likely. 

Conrad  now  owed  the  doctor  a  considerable  bill  and  the 
physician  ceased  calling.  He  was  to  be  summoned  only  in 
case  the  child  became  violently  ill,  or  something  out  of  the 
ordinary  happened.  Otherwise  there  was  no  need  of  a  physi- 
cian. 

No  sooner  had  the  doctor's  visits  ceased,  however,  than 
Anna  began  making  the  rounds  of  dispensaries.  Twice  and 
three  times  a  week  she  would  visit  various  free  clinics,  in 
spite  of  the  wet,  drizzly  fall  days.  Freddy  invariably  ac- 
companied her  on  these  journeys.  She  could  not  leave  him 
alone  in  the  house.  Besides,  the  boy  was  a  real  help  to  her 
now  that  little  Henry  had  become  a  "  lump  of  flesh,"  as  Anna 
often  sobbed  to  herself. 

Gottfried  would  listen  to  his  wife's  tales  of  what  the  doc- 
tors had  to  say  about  little  Henry  in  silence.  He  was  a 
little  afraid  of  Anna  —  afraid  that  she  might  break  down. 
She  had  become  worn  and  unstrung.  He  spent  much  time 
home  now,  brooding.  Remorse  was  gnawing  at  him.  Anna 
never  reproached  him,  but  he  felt  that  he  was  largely,  if  not 
entirely,  responsible  for  the  injury  to  his  child.  Of  course 
accidents  would  happen.  Still  had  he  stayed  home  that 
evening,  his  child  might  have  been  well;  they  might  all  have 
been  spared  that  misfortune. 

Little  Henry  apparently  was  none  the  worse  off  for  being 
dragged  about  by  his  mother.  He  was  eating  well  and  get- 
ting stouter,  heavier.  But  there  was  not  the  slightest  sign 
of  a  return  of  intelligence  into  his  vacant  face  and  eyes. 

The  fall  passed  and  Christmas  came.  Conrad  was  fond 
of  Christmas  in  spite  of  his  irreligion.     It  was  such   a 


28  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"  gemiithlicher  "  holiday,  it  was  so  filled  with  memories  of 
home  and  childhood  and  happy  bygone  days.  It  was  to  him 
the  least  churchly  of  all  church  holidays.  But  there  was 
next  to  no  celebration  at  the  Conrad  home  that  Christmas. 
There  was  no  holiday  spirit  in  the  house. 

Mrs.  Conrad  left  off  going  to  dispensaries  during  the  holi- 
days. But  the  first  week  in  January  she  not  only  went  her- 
self with  the  child,  but  insisted  that  Gottfried,  who  was  not 
working  that  week,  go  along  with  her  to  a  hitherto  untried 
clinic.  He  went,  and  when  he  remained  alone  with  the 
physician  he  implored  him  for  the  truth  about  his  child.  He 
was  ready  to  face  anything,  Gottfried  assured  him.  The 
doctor  would  make  no  out  and  out  prediction.  He  hinted, 
however,  that  "  in  such  cases  death  is  frequently  the  greatest 
specialist."  Gottfried  tried  hard  to  meet  his  wife  with  a 
look  of  feigned  unconcern. 

The  women  in  the  tenement  house  were  now  in  frequent 
communication  with  Anna.  They  brought  her  news  of  every 
specialist  or  professor  they  heard  about.  They  brought  her 
stories  of  cases  similar  to  her  own.  Anna's  head  would  be- 
come dizzy  from  the  description  of  diseases  and  the  sickening 
details  of  suffering.  It  would  seem  to  her  at  times  as  if  the 
whole  world  were  a  huge  hospital  and  that  her  share  of 
misery  and  suffering  were  indeed  light  beside  the  horrifying 
agonies  her  neighbors  and  friends  described. 

She  could  not  of  course  think  of  visiting  the  specialists  and 
professors  the  women  told  her  about,  because  they  charged 
such  prohibitive  prices,  but  she  longed  to  visit  them,  espe- 
cially one,  a  Dr.  Homer  Blakely,  concerning  whom  she  heard 
much.  But  Dr.  Blakely,  it  was  said,  charged  twenty-five 
dollars  a  visit.     So  that  was  out  of  the  question. 

One  day  in  March  the  neighbor  who  had  been  indefatigable 
in  her  stories  about  Dr.  Blakely  fairly  flew  into  the  Conrad 


FREDDY  RECALLS  29 

flat,  so  eager  was  she  to  impart  the  good  news.  Dr.  Blakely 
could  be  seen  free.  Yes,  twice  a  week  the  professor  was  at 
the  Mount  Horeb  hospital.  He  was  there  only  an  hour  and 
there  were  hundreds  waiting  every  time  to  see  him.  He  was 
there  from  ten  to  eleven.  But  if  Mrs.  Conrad  meant  to  see 
him  she  would  have  to  be  at  the  hospital  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning. 

Anna's  eyes  lighted  up  at  this  news.  She  would  be  there 
at  eight  o'clock;  she  would  be  there  long  before  eight.  And 
she  was  —  the  following  Friday. 

It  was  a  cold,  biting  morning,  one  of  those  mornings  which 
give  the  month  of  March  the  characterization  of  coming  in 
like  a  lion.  But  this  did  not  deter  her.  While  his  father 
was  eating  breakfast,  she  woke  Freddy  up  and  dressed  him 
by  lamplight.  Then  she  got  busy  with  the  invalid,  wrap- 
ping little  Henry  up  tightly  and  securely.  Before  starting 
she  looked  Freddy  over  again.  She  thought  she  had  him 
dressed  amply  warm  for  the  ride.  But  she  was  unaware  of 
the  long  walk  there  was  between  the  street-car  and  the  hos- 
pital dispensary.  When  she  was  still  several  blocks  from 
the  hospital,  little  Freddy's  hands  were  numb  and  the  tears 
were  freezing  on  his  cheeks.  He  cried  bitterly.  The  inva- 
lid, too,  began  a  series  of  awful  shrieks.  The  wind  and 
sleet  cut  Mrs.  Conrad's  bare  wrist,  but  she  would  not  for  a 
minute  relinquish  Freddy's  hand.  Thus,  holding  one  child 
to  her  bosom  and  dragging  the  other  one,  she  finally  reached 
the  hospital.  Breathlessly  she  sank  on  the  first  bench  she 
saw.  It  was  not  yet  7:30.  Attracted  by  the  cries  of  the 
two  children,  an  attendant  came  out,  a  middle-aged  man. 
He  was  accustomed  to  such  sights,  but  not  so  early  in  the 
morning.  This  must  be  a  desperate  case,  he  thought,  and 
departed  for  the  moment  from  his  cold,  official  manner.  He 
took  hold  of  Freddy  and  rubbed  his  stiff  fingers  back  first  to 


30 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 


pain  and  then  to  relief.  Anna  was  doing  all  she  could  to 
quiet  little  Henry. 

The  attendant  took  in  the  strange  sound  the  child  was 
making,  looked  at  him  and  then  at  Anna  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  want  to  see  Professor  Blakely,"  Anna  began  as  soon 
as  the  children  were  quieted.  "  I  must  see  him.  I  beg  you 
to  let  me  see  him."  Her  misfortune  had  for  one  of  its  re- 
sults the  acquirement  by  Anna  of  a  sharper,  better  command 
of  English.  She  simply  had  to  elbow  her  way  through  the 
English  language  as  she  had  to  do  it  through  the  crowds  in 
the  dispensaries  if  she  were  to  get  anywhere. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  attendant  sought  to  quiet  her,  "  you  shall 
see  him.  You  shall  see  him  first,"  he  added  as  he  was 
leaving  the  room.  Several  other  hospital  attaches  came  into 
the  room  one  by  one  in  the  next  hour  and  a  half.  All  eyed 
Mrs.  Conrad  and  her  invalid  curiously  and  all  were  nice  to 
Freddy.  Meantime  the  waiting-room  was  rapidly  filling  up 
with  patients.  They  were  talking  under  their  breath,  whis- 
pering. All  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door  leading  to  the  inner 
room.  Finally  it  opened.  An  attendant  looked  over  the 
crowd  and  disappeared  again  inside  the  closed  door.  He 
came  out  a  moment  later,  went  half  way  across  the  room 
and  motioned  Mrs.  Conrad  to  follow  him.  Anna's  heart 
stood  still. 

In  spite  of  Dr.  Blakely's  attempted  smile  every  time  he 
looked  at  her  or  asked  a  question,  Anna  was  trembling.  She 
felt  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  a  man  who  was  different 
from  all  the  doctors  she  had  visited.  The  others  were  so 
sure  and  brief.  Dr.  Blakely  seemed  utterly  undecided.  He 
was  taking  Mrs.  Conrad  into  his  confidence,  was  asking  her 
opinion,  seemed  to  be  seeking  her  approbation,  as  if  she  too 
were  a  doctor.  There  was  no  gruff ness  in  his  voice,  he  made 
no    attempt   at    showing    authority.     On   the   contrary,    he 


FREDDY  RECALLS  31 

seemed  apologetic,  and  acted  as  if  he  felt  guilty  of  some- 
thing. She  could  have  cried  out,  could  have  thrown  herself 
at  the  man's  feet  and  begged  him  to  save  her  son.  If  he 
could  not  save  him,  no  one  could.  But  she  controlled  her- 
self. She  was  afraid  to  make  the  least  disturbance.  The 
physician's  eyes  had  become  so  thoughtful. 

The  examination  of  the  child  by  the  Yankee  doctor  indeed 
was  not  a  superficial  one.  Little  Henry  was  undressed  and 
the  physician's  fingers  traveled  over  every  limb.  Then  came 
various  probes  and  sounds.  He  looked  into  his  ears  and 
eyes,  pulled  back  the  hair  from  his  forehead  and  observed  it 
for  a  long  time. 

Then,  while  the  nurses  were  tending  to  the  invalid,  the 
physician  turned  to  little  Freddy.  He  tickled  the  youngster 
under  the  chin  and  a  smile  spread  over  Dr.  Blakely's  clean- 
shaven face,  a  kindly,  grandfatherly  smile. 

"  I  have  a  little  grandson  who  is  just  your  age,"  he  was 
telling  Freddy.     "  You  want  to  come  and  play  with  him  ?  " 

Freddy  did  not  answer.  The  tears  were  fast  gathering  in 
Anna's  eyes.  Dr.  Blakely  turned  his  attention  to  her.  He 
began  asking  questions,  what  dispensaries  she  had  been  going 
to,  how  often  she  went.  She  answered  quickly.  Once  she 
got  her  tenses  badly  mixed.  A  faint  smile  flickered  over  the 
physician's  face.  He  asked  how  long  she  had  been  in  the 
country,  where  she  came  from.  The  Rhine?  Oh,  yes,  he 
knew  the  Rhine  very  well,  liked  it;  tramped  through  the 
whole  Rhine  country  as  a  student.  He  dropped  into  Ger- 
man so  simply  and  naturally  that  Mrs.  Conrad  hardly  noticed 
the  change  of  language. 

He  was  warning  her  not  to  go  out  on  such  cold  days  to 
dispensaries.  It  might  make  little  Freddy  ill.  And  she,  too, 
was  not  overly  strong,  and  not  overly  well  dressed.  She 
must  be  careful.     She  was  apt  to  catch  cold.  ...  He  was 


32  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

sidestepping  the  real  issue,  Anna  felt.  He  was  hedging. 
He  did  not  wish  to  speak  to  her  about  little  Henry. 

"  But,  Herr  Doktor,"  she  broke  in  excitedly,  "  what  about 
my  child  —  will  he  get  well  ?  Will  he,  Doctor  ?  I  —  I  can- 
not stand  it  any  longer." 

Her  thin  frame  was  trembling  with  sobs.  Dr.  Blakely 
spoke.  He  urged  her  to  calm  herself,  to  control  her  feel- 
ings. She  must  not  take  it  so  hard.  She  had  another  child 
to  look  after,  her  little  boy  there.  She  must  spare  her  health 
for  his  sake.  Besides,  she  was  still  so  young,  she  would 
have  other  children,  many  children,  nice  children  like  little 
Freddy.  ...  He  smiled. 

She  recovered  her  self-possession  in  an  instant.  The 
doctor's  words  sounded  so  strange.  Was  her  child  going  to 
die? 

Dr.  Blakely  regarded  her  for  a  moment.  Finally  he 
spoke:     "No,  not  so  soon." 

"  He  will  die,  he  will  die,"  she  mumbled,  a  hunted  look 
coming  into  her  eyes. 

The  doctor  was  looking  at  little  Freddy  and  seemed  to 
weigh  something  in  his  mind.  The  child  was  dressed  in  a 
coat  of  cheap,  shoddy  material.  His  patched  shoes,  the 
flannel  pants  and  waist  he  wore,  his  mittens,  all  were  un- 
equal to  the  rigors  of  the  weather  outside.  And  he  spoke 
to  Mrs.  Conrad.  He  spoke  with  the  same  attitude  and  feel- 
ing with  which  he  was  wont  to  plunge  the  scalpel  deeper 
and  deeper  into  a  wound,  knowing  that  that  way  alone  lay 
relief  and  safety. 

"  Liebe  Frau,"  he  said,  speaking  in  German  to  her,  "  you 
must  not  forget  that  you  have  another  child  to  look  after. 
You  must  save  your  health  for  him  and  for  yourself,  for 
your  future  children.  There  is  no  use  in  my  leading  you 
on  with  false  hopes.     You  might  as  well  face  the  truth  and 


FREDDY  RECALLS  33 

save  your  energy,  save  tramping  to  dispensaries  in  such 
weather.  Your  child  will  never  be  well.  There  is  only  one 
way  out  for  cases  like  this  —  death.  Doctors  can  do  noth- 
ing for  it.  It  is  entirely  in  the  hands  of  nature.  Nature 
may  sometimes  work  out  a  cure  in  spite  of  the  physician's 
diagnosis.  Such  cures,  however,  are  not  frequent.  His 
brain  has  been  disturbed  and  his  spine  is  injured.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  done  for  him  but  to  make  his  lot  as  easy  as 
possible  as  long  as  he  is  with  us." 

She  was  sobbing.  The  nurse  was  dressing  the  invalid. 
The  physician  walked  up  and  down  the  room  a  few  times, 
then  stood  directly  in  front  of  Mrs.  Conrad.  His  gray  hair 
had  been  disturbed.  The  rings  under  his  eyes  were  showing 
with  marked  prominence.  He  never  liked  such  scenes. 
They  aged  one. 

"  This,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  sad,  helpless  woman  before 
him,  "  this,  my  dear  woman,  is  a  time  to  show  your  Christian 
fortitude.     Brace  up." 

She  had  a  long  day  for  tears  and  moans  so  that  they  were 
well  spent  by  the  time  her  husband  came  home  for  supper. 
As  soon  as  Gottfried  saw  his  wife's  face  he  knew  that  some- 
thing had  happened.  He  looked  at  Freddy.  The  child  was 
sitting  at  the  table  awaiting  his  father.  Little  Henry  lay  in 
his  crib  asleep.  All  was  seemingly  as  usual,  but  something 
had  happened.     He  sensed  it  clearly. 

They  ate  in  silence.  Gottfried  did  not  take  his  eyes  off 
Freddy  during  the  meal.  He  kept  asking  him  whether  he 
wanted  more  of  this  or  that.  But  the  boy  did  not  have 
much  of  an  appetite  that  evening.  When  the  meal  was  fin- 
ished, Gottfried  asked: 

"  What  did  the  doctor  say?  " 

Anna  pretended  not  to  hear  him.     She  did  not  wish  to 


34  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

speak  in  Freddy's  presence.  She  rose  and  walked  over  to 
where  little  Henry  lay  sleeping  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
child's  bed.     Gottfried  followed  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  What  did  the  doctor  say?  "  he  asked  as  he  put  his  arm 
about  her  waist.     Anna  bent  her  face  and  head  lower. 

"  He  said,"  she  spoke  with  a  throat  that  was  filling  with 
tears,  "  he  said,  this  is  the  time  to  show  Christian  fortitude/* 

Gottfried  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  wife's  heaving  shoulders 
and  stared  at  the  sleeping  child  in  the  crib.  Six  years  of 
idiocy  had  made  their  entry  into  the  Conrad  home. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  WEB   OF   LITE 

WITH  the  definite  realization  that  their  child  was  a 
hopeless  idiot,  there  settled  over  the  Conrad  house- 
hold a  subdued  quiet.  Had  little  Henry  died  Gottfried 
would  not  have  been  wanting  in  words  of  consolation  for 
himself  and  for  his  wife.  Little  Freddy  was  still  too  young 
to  have  a  sustained  impression  of  the  tragedy. 

But  of  what  avail  could  words  be  when  the  child  was 
there,  lying  in  the  crib,  or  sitting  humped  together  in  an  im- 
provised chair,  a  mass  of  vegetating  tissue,  with'  a  hopeless, 
idiotic  gaze  and  a  voice  like  that  of  a  bullock?  Gottfried 
could  endure  pain,  torture,  death,  if  it  only  came  with  a  vio- 
lent rush.  The  slow,  torturesome  agony  of  helplessness  was 
driving  him  mad.  When  he  woke  in  the  morning  and  went 
about  his  ablutions  he  would  try  hard  to  avoid  chancing  his 
gaze  upon  little  Henry  as  he  lay  in  the  crib.  When  he  re- 
turned from  work  in  the  evening  he  maintained  a  sullen 
silence.  He  had  not  lost  his  sensitiveness  for  his  wife.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  this  very  sensitiveness  for  her  suffering 
and  torture  that  was  turning  him  into  a  bear.  The  dull  gaze 
of  the  invalid  was  turning  the  house  into  a  torture  chamber 
for  him,  and  Gottfried  fled. 

He  fled  to  his  societies.  He  sought  relief  in  consuming 
activity  in  the  various  socialist  and  labor  organizations. 
Gottfried,  who  leaped  from  one  impulse  to  another,  was  now 

35 


36  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

slighting  his  wife.  He  brought  his  wages  home,  to  be  sure, 
but  not  himself.  He  spent  little  time  in  the  house.  Anna 
saw  the  change  that  was  coming  over  her  husband,  but 
she  had  been  too  much  battered  and  beaten  by  misfortune  to 
have  energy  left  for  consecutive  thought  or  contemplation. 
She  was  devoting  herself  to  her  invalid  and  to  Freddy  with 
passion  and  tenderness;  to  the  invalid  because  he  was  help- 
less, because  he  was  no  longer  of  this  world  but  was  merely 
lingering  on  before  taking  his  departure;  and  to  Freddy  be- 
cause he  was  her  hope  for  the  future  and  companion  for  the 
present.  The  boy  was  bright,  sensitive,  and  was  compen- 
sating her  for  many  hurts  and  neglects  by  his  father. 

But  Gottfried  hardened  in  a  measure  also  toward  Freddy. 
Time  and  again  when  his  five-year-old  son  would  come  up 
to  his  father  for  a  word  or  caress,  Gottfried  would  speak  to 
him  or  touch  him  grudgingly.  His  sense  of  justice,  which 
he  carried  to  extremes  at  all  times  and  on  all  occasions,  would 
tell  him  that  a  caress  for  Freddy  might  indeed  be  a  dis- 
crimination which  little  Henry,  were  he  in  possession  of  his 
faculties,  would  resent.  So  little  Freddy  came  to  depend 
more  and  more  upon  his  mother.  He  clung  to  Anna  with  all 
the  fervor  of  his  sensitive  and  neglected  heart. 

Time  and  events  combined  to  make  it  easy  for  Gottfried 
to  neglect  his  home  and  family  and  yet  not  incur  any  re- 
proaches in  doing  so  from  Anna  or  even  from  his  own  con- 
science. For  Conrad  was  in  great  demand  these  days. 
There  was  a  quickening  of  activity  among  the  German  work- 
men in  New  York  and  in  America  generally.  Immigration 
from  the  fatherland  had  increased  and  most  of  the  newcom- 
ers were  workingmen.  Some  of  them  had  belonged  to  Las- 
salle's  organization  in  the  Old  World;  others  were  members 
of  Karl  Marx's  recently  formed  Internationale.  The  Ger- 
mans in  New  York  were  now  organizing  in  trade  unions. 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE  37 

Grievances  were  discussed,  ultimatums  to  employers  decided 
upon,  strikes  planned. 

Another  event  that  stirred  the  German  colony  to  its  founda- 
tions was  the  appearance  in  America  of  Karl  Marx's  work 
"  Das  Kapital."  The  book  had  already  been  accepted  by 
the  socialists  of  Europe  as  their  gospel.  Its  appearance  in 
New  York  had  transformed  over  night  the  halls  and  bar- 
rooms of  Little  Germany  into  popular  forums  for  the  dis- 
cussion of  surplus  value,  rents  and  profits.  Scores  of  clubs 
had  sprung  up  for  the  systematic  study  of  the  treatise.  Con- 
rad was  a  zealous  student  of  the  book  and  among  the  first 
to  master  it. 

The  interest  in  Karl  Marx's  book  was  still  at  white  heat 
when  the  panic  of  1873  set  in.  There  were  thousands  of 
unemployed  walking  about  the  streets  of  New  York  City, 
hungry.  The  approaching  rigors  of  the  winter  made  their 
sufferings  even  more  acute.  Protest  meetings,  demonstra- 
tions, parades  were  held.  At  each  of  these  Conrad  was  in  the 
forefront  as  the  orator  of  the  day.  There  were  other  speak- 
ers in  the  colony,  but  none  of  them  had  the  earnestness  and 
convincingness  of  Gottfried  Conrad.  His  friends,  the  Las- 
salleans  with  Heinrich  Kolb  at  the  head,  noticed  that.  Con- 
rad had  indeed  grown  in  the  half-dozen  years  since  he  left 
Germany.  No  one  could  drive  an  argument  or  a  picture 
home  to  the  workingman  so  well  as  he.  To  Kolb,  who  would 
sit  on  the  same  platform  with  him,  it  would  often  seem  as  if 
Gottfried  was  pouring  out  his  own  heavy  heart  to  his  listen- 
ers; as  if  he  were  baring  his  own  cruel  fate  and  bitter  disap- 
pointment to  them.  His  sympathy  and  understanding  of 
suffering  and  tragedy  were  almost  divine.  His  sincerity  and 
directness  savored  of  the  apostles.  Kolb  watched  Conrad 
with  pride.  He  w^as  not  deceived  in  him.  Gottfried  had 
more  than  come  up  to  his  expectations.    He  was  indeed  a 


38  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

great  orator  —  the  best  socialist  speaker  among  the  Germans 
in  New  York.  His,  Kolb's,  teachings  and  influence  had 
fallen  on  fertile  soil.  .  .  . 

"Nun  Ja,  der  Conrad!  "  the  listeners  would  say  to  each 
other  —  and  that  explained  it  all.  That  was  just  exactly 
what  they  expected  of  him.  Conrad's  reputation  as  a 
scourger  of  oppression  had  for  some  time  been  definitely  ac- 
cepted. 

But  the  vehemence  which  marked  Gottfried  Conrad  on  the 
platform  was  beginning  to  find  expression  in  his  personal 
relations  with  people  and  especially  with  his  family.  He 
had  always  been  somewhat  autocratic;  he  was  becoming  more 
and  more  so  now  without  noticing  it.  Anna  watched  her  hus- 
band with  sad  eyes.  Gottfried  was  growing  quarrelsome, 
hard  and  domineering.  There  was  a  set,  elderly  expression 
about  his  face  now,  despite  the  fact  that  he  was  not  yet  thirty. 
His  long,  sandy  mustache  framed  a  mouth  that  had  lost 
nearly  all  of  the  tender  sensitiveness  that  endeared  him  to 
her  back  in  Germany,  that  made  him  such  a  wonderful  lover 
there. 

Sometimes  on  a  Sunday  Conrad  would  sit  home  and  read. 
But  no  longer  as  in  the  past  was  he  calling  Anna  to  read 
her  a  love  story  in  the  paper  or  to  tell  her  an  anecdote.  His 
reading  now  was  as  gray  as  his  life.  At  least  such  was  the 
impression  the  books  and  pamphlets  he  devoured  made  upon 
Anna.  She  found  them  full  of  figures.  They  read  for  all 
the  world  like  a  tradesman's  bill. 

Anna's  sadness  was  taking  on  a  tinge  of  self-pity.  When 
Freddy  was  out  playing  in  the  yard,  she  would  often  sit  by 
the  window  and  cry.  She  was  lonely.  Friends  and  neigh- 
bors were  all  right  in  their  place.  But  now  she  needed  more 
than  friends.  She  needed  Gottfried  —  his  sympathy,  his 
love  and  caresses.     She  was  expecting  another  baby.     And 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE  39 

while  Gottfried  was  considerate  and  relieved  her  of  much 
work,  she  sought  his  eyes  for  something  more  than  mere 
consideration,  but  she  did  not  find  it  there.  Gottfried  was 
too  embittered. 

In  August  the  child  came,  a  little  girl.  But  she  died  at 
the  end  of  three  weeks.  There  was  an  epidemic  in  the  dis- 
trict at  the  time  and  the  child  succumbed  to  it.  The  birth 
and  death  of  the  child  made  a  fleeting  impression  upon  the 
Conrad  household.  It  was  soon  again  in  its  accustomed 
rut  —  with  a  slight  deviation. 

Freddy,  who  was  now  six  years  old,  started  school 
and  there  was  no  one  to  help  her  with  Henry  during  the 
day.  The  invalid  child  had  developed  a  ravenous  appetite, 
and  his  paralytic  body  with  its  large  head,  curved  back,  and 
face  of  leaden  hue,  was  taking  on  much  flesh.  In  her  still 
delicate  condition  she  could  no  longer  lift  or  carry  him  with- 
out doing  violence  to  her  own  health. 

Not  to  deprive  little  Henry,  however,  of  his  wonted  airing, 
Mrs.  Conrad  contrived  a  new  scheme.  As  soon  as  Freddy 
came  back  from  school  they  would  take  him  up  on  the  roof 
of  the  house  together  and  keep  him  there  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon,  and  even  a  good  part  of  the  evening. 

It  was  less  than  a  half-dozen  blocks  from  the  tenement  in 
which  the  Conrad  family  lived  to  the  East  River.  In  the 
late  afternoon  and  evening  during  the  few  weeks  before  fall 
set  in,  the  breeze  from  the  river  would  make  the  roof  of  the 
tenement  a  delightful  place.  After  supper,  when  Conrad 
would  go  away  to  his  meetings,  she  would  go  up  to  the  roof, 
spread  out  a  blanket  and  lie  down  with  little  Freddy,  the 
invalid  lying  on  one  side  of  them.  Mother  and  son  would 
talk  together  as  they  watched  the  city  become  studded  with 
electric  lights,  and  listened  to  the  whistles  of  steamers,  or 
gazed  at  the  stars  in  silence.    These  few  fall  evenings  and  his 


40  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

mother's  face  remained  bound  together  in  Freddy's  memory 
to  his  dying  day. 

From  the  roof  they  had  a  view  of  several  of  the  big  sky- 
scrapers on  one  side.  On  the  other  side  towered  the  steeple 
of  a  church.  The  church  was  blocks  away,  but  the  gold- 
roofed  steeple  seemed  near,  especially  after  dark.  In  the 
evening  it  would  often  seem  to  Freddy  that  he  needed  but  to 
walk  over  to  the  edge  of  the  roof  and  he  could  touch  the 
steeple. 

Once  Freddy  asked  his  mother  why  they  were  not  going 
to  church;  all  the  people  he  knew  were.  Anna  gave  him 
the  best  answer  she  could  think  of,  and  the  child  forgot  the 
subject.    He  came  back  to  it,  however,  some  evenings  later. 

"  Mama,"  he  asked,  "  are  we  foreigners?  " 

Anna  studied  his  little  face  in  the  moonlight.  "  Why  do 
you  ask  this  ?  "  she  said  finally. 

"  'Cause  Jackie  Carroll  says  we  are  foreigners  'cause  we 
don't  go  to  church." 

"  Is  that  what  he  says?  "     She  tried  to  draw  him  out. 

"  Yes,"  said  Freddy,  enthusiastic  over  his  mother's  inter- 
est. "  Jackie  says  his  mother  says  all  them  foreigners  are 
bad  people.  They  don't  pray  at  the  table  and  don't  go  to 
church." 

Anna  was  silent. 

"  Why  don't  we  never  go  to  church,  Mama?  "  Freddy  came 
back  with  the  question  that  never  was  satisfactorily  an- 
swered. "  Is  it  'cause  you  got  to  tend  to  baby  ?  "  They  were 
calling  their  invalid  "  baby." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  not  knowing  what  answer  to  make. 

"  Then  why  don't  Papa  take  me  to  church?  Lots  of  chil- 
dren go  to  church  with  their  papas." 

"  When  you  are  a  big  boy  you  will  know,"  Mrs.  Conrad 
replied,  and  Freddy  wondered  why  he  could  not  know  now. 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE  41 

But  he  did  not  wonder  too  long.  A  moment  later  he  was 
asking  her  about  the  stars  and  where  they  came  from,  and 
why  God  had  chosen  to  live  in  heaven.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  word  God  was  never  mentioned  by  Conrad,  and  that 
he  forbade  his  wife  to  mention  it  in  his  child's  presence, 
Freddy  had  picked  up  all  sorts  of  words  and  phrases  about 
God  and  heaven  and  was  trying  to  construct  the  fragments 
of  information  into  one  whole,  into  a  something  that  would 
have  logic  and  would  not  puzzle  his  childish  brain. 

Mrs.  Conrad,  who  had  been  thinking  to  herself  while  her 
little  son  was  rambling,  suddenly  said  to  him  as  if  in  response 
to  a  question : 

"  No,  you  are  not  a  foreigner,  my  child  —  you  are  an 
American.  Papa  and  I  were  born  in  the  old  country,  but 
you  were  born  right  here  in  New  York.  You  are  an  Amer- 
ican; you  are  as  good  an  American  as  Jackie  Carroll  or 
anybody  else.  Americans  too  don't  go  to  church  if  they 
don't  want  to.  You  don't  have  to  go  to  church  if  you  don't 
wish  to." 

Anna  had  not  at  all  been  converted  to  her  husband's  free- 
thinking  views.  She  approved  of  them  no  more  than  ever. 
But  she  would  not  let  any  one  hold  these  views  against  him 
and  especially  against  her  child.  It  was  just  such  ques- 
tions that  she  feared  during  those  weeks  immediately  fol- 
lowing Freddy's  birth  when  she  was  pleading  with  Gottfried 
to  have  the  child  baptized.  She  would  shield  her  son,  how- 
ever, against  such  annoyances,  she  would  shield  him  to  the 
best  of  her  ability. 

Freddy  had  studied  the  decisive  mien  of  his  mother  for 
some  time,  then  came  back  at  her  trying  to  make  sure. 

"  I'm  not  a  foreigner  nohow?  "  he  asked. 

A  glint  of  merriment  came  into  Anna's  eyes.  She  replied, 
"  You  are  not  a  foreigner,  nohow;  you  are  an  American." 


42  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

The  boy  was  quiet  for  a  long  time.     He  was  thinking. 

Two  days  later  Freddy  ran  up  the  stairs  in  the  afternoon 
with  several  ugly  scratches  on  his  face  and  wrists.  His 
waist  was  torn  and  one  ear  was  dirt-covered,  as  if  he  had 
rolled  on  the  ground. 

"  Did  you  fight  again?  "  Anna  asked  anxiously. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  quietly. 

"With  whom?" 

"  With  Jackie,"  he  replied,  and  dropped  his  monosyllabic 
tone.  There  was  a  glow  in  his  eyes,  a  glow  of  triumph. 
He  continued,  fairly  shouting  as  he  spoke,  "I  bit  him  and 
I  punched  him  and  then  I  kicked  him  in  the  stomach." 

"<  Why  did  you  do  this?  "  His  mother  glowered  at  him. 
Mrs.  Carroll  was  a  neighbor  of  hers  whom  she  did  not  espe- 
cially like.  She  was  one  of  the  old  Irish  tenants  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  invasion  of  the  district  by  German  im- 
migrants had  caused  an  exodus  of  the  Irish.  Mrs.  Carroll 
resented  this  and  she  "  made  the  dutchies  feel  it,"  as  she 
expressed  it.  She  was  a  quarrelsome  neighbor;  Mrs.  Con- 
rad always  avoided  her. 

"  I  warned  you,"  Anna  chid  her  son,  "  not  to  play  with 
Jackie  and  not  to  fight  with  him." 

"I  did  not  begin  it,"  burst  out  Freddy;  "he  did.  He 
said  I  was  a  foreigner  and  I  was  no  Christian,  and  called 
me  names,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  children  about  and  they 
laughed.  Then  I  punched  him  and  I  rolled  him  on  the 
ground  and  I  kicked  him  until  he  cried.  I  did  not  cry;  I 
won't  — "  and  he  broke  out  in  stifling  sobs. 

Freddy's  starting  school  brought  about  a  significant  change 
in  the  Conrad  household.  It  brought  Gottfried  back  to  his 
family  with  remarkable  suddenness.  The  wound  caused  by 
the  misfortune  to  little  Henry  was  not  healed,  but  it  was  not 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE  43 

festering.  Both  Gottfried  and  his  wife  were  becoming  recon- 
ciled to  their  fate  —  their  son's  fate.  Conrad  had  calmed 
down.  He  could  now  look  at  his  invalid  son,  go  up  to  him 
and  try  to  make  him  comfortable.  His  paternal  feelings  for 
the  child  were  dulled.  Whenever  his  thoughts  turned  on  the 
future,  on  his  family,  he  saw  only  Freddy. 

Conrad  did  not  curtail  his  activity  in  the  union  and  various 
socialist  organizations  to  which  he  belonged,  but  his  heart 
was  home  once  more,  things  in  the  house  resumed  a  cheer- 
fulness which  had  not  been  there  since  that  fatal  evening  of 
the  accident  nearly  two  and  a  half  years  back.  The  holi- 
day feeling  would  be  introduced  at  supper  when  Gottfried 
would  open  a  conversation  with  Freddy  about  school  and 
his  teachers.  Gottfried  was  taking  his  six-year-old  son  seri- 
ously now.  So  far  Freddy  was  the  only  prop  upon  which 
his  house,  the  House  of  Conrad,  was  to  rest.  Gottfried 
looked  sharp  after  the  progress  the  boy  was  making  in  his 
studies,  in  his  surroundings.  He  was  more  than  ever  on 
guard  now  lest  his  son  be  torn  from  him,  torn  by  a  training, 
by  a  psychology  and  point  of  view  which  would  have  nothing 
in  common  with  his.  He  was  determined  to  keep  his  son. 
There  must  be  no  gap  between  them.  Of  course,  Freddy  was 
an  American:  English  was  his  native  language.  But  why 
could  not  Freddy  think  in  English  that  which  his  father  was 
thinking  in  German?  The  theories  and  ideals  for  which  he, 
Gottfried,  stood,  which  he  preached,  were  universal.  They 
were  international.  Socialism  was  preaching  the  brother- 
hood of  men  and  nations.  That  he  must  make  clear  to  the 
boy,  with  that  his  son  must  become  inoculated.  There 
should  be  no  difference  in  thought  between  him  and  his  son 
even  if  a  difference  in  tongues  could  not  be  avoided. 

Of  course  Gottfried  had  no  intention  of  talking  socialism 
to  his  six-year-old  son;  that  would  be  ridiculous.     But  he 


44 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 


determined  to  look  after  his  mental  and  moral  bringing  up 
otherwise.  Among  the  socialist  tracts  he  had  read  there 
were  several  which  contained  interesting  information  about 
the  growth  of  the  child's  mind  and  habits  of  thought.  These 
Conrad  read  and  reread  and  now  proceeded  to  put  them  into 
practise.  His  son  was  to  grow  into  a  socialistic  viewpoint. 
He  would  not  let  his  boy  out  of  his  sight. 

The  struggles  which  Freddy  went  through  because  the 
Conrad  family  was  not  going  to  church  did  not  escape 
Gottfried's  keen  eye.  This,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Anna 
never  mentioned  such  things  to  him.  She  carefully  re- 
frained from  narrating  to  her  husband  the  various  questions 
little  Freddy  asked  her  during  the  beautiful  fall  evenings 
they  spent  on  the  roof.  But  Gottfried  suspected  these  things. 
He  had  reason  to.  Twice  or  three  times  he  caught  Freddy 
making  remarks  which  showed  that  the  subject  of  religion 
had  been  discussed  somewhere,  possibly  in  school.  Once 
Freddy  asked  his  father  whether  he  could  go  to  Sunday- 
school.  Teacher  was  telling  him  about  it.  All  the  other 
children  went. 

"  You  better  wait,"  said  Conrad.  "  Soon  v/e  shall  have 
a  Sunday-school  of  our  own." 

Freddy  did  not  seem  pleased  by  it,  or  overly  interested  in 
the  Sunday-school  that  was  to  be.  But  he  submitted  with- 
out further  protest. 

At  the  very  next  meeting  of  the  Freidenkerverein  Conrad 
got  up  and  spoke  at  length  about  the  need  of  a  Sunday-school 
for  the  children  of  the  free-thinking  German  immigrants. 
There  were  by  this  time  more  than  a  dozen  married  men  in 
the  society  and  they  heartily  approved  Conrad's  suggestion. 
Conrad  did  not  come  empty-handed  to  the  meeting.  He  had 
several  newspaper  clippings  and  a  little  pamphlet  telling  of 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE  45 

the  work  which  Free-thinking  Germans  in  the  West  were 
doing  in  that  direction. 

A  committee  was  appointed  to  get  in  touch  with  these 
Western  Germans  and  to  see  how  far  they  had  progressed 
with  their  free-thought  schools  and  instruction.  The  greater 
part  of  the  winter  was  consumed  in  correspondence.  In 
March  a  program  and  course  of  study  were  finally  agreed 
upon.  The  first  Sunday  in  April  the  Sunday-school  that 
was  "  to  train  children  as  future  soldiers  in  the  army  of 
the  brotherhood  of  man,  freedom  and  equality  "  was  to  open. 

Conrad  and  Kolb  supplemented  each  other  in  outlining  the 
course  of  study.  The  word  "  God "  was  eliminated  and 
"  Nature  "  was  substituted  for  it.  The  children  were  to  be 
taught  reason  and  human  dignity — Vernunft  und  Mensch- 
Uche  Werde.  They  were  to  be  taught  pure  morals  and  ethics 
—  Reine  Moral  und  Sittlichkeit.  Instead  of  being  taught 
the  miracles  of  the  Bible,  they  were  to  be  taught  the  wonders 
of  science:  Precepts  of  humanity  were  to  take  the  place  of 
the  catechism  of  religion. 

The  long  awaited  Sunday  came.  Gottfried  himself  took 
his  little  son  to  Sunday-school.  The  school  was  housed  in 
the  hall  where  the  Freidenkerverein  held  its  semi-monthly 
meetings.  But  the  hall  had  been  specially  adorned  for  the 
occasion.  Several  new  pictures  were  added  to  those  already 
on  the  walls.  Across  from  the  picture  of  Ferdinand  Lassalle 
there  now  hung  a  picture  of  Alexander  von  Humboldt.  A 
supposed  likeness  of  Copernicus  was  hung  next  to  that  of 
the  agitator  Weitling.  Across  the  length  of  the  wall,  which 
faced  the  audience,  freshly  painted  was  the  legend  Und  Sie 
Bewegt  Sick  Doch. 

The  preceptor  was  a  young  German  student  who  had  re- 
cently arrived  from  the  Old  World.     He  did  not  speak  a 


46  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

word  of  English.  He  made  an  introductory  speech  which 
the  parents  present  fully  approved,  and  were  even  enthusiastic 
over.  But  little  Freddy  and  the  half-dozen  other  boys  and 
girls  who  were  present  understood  scarcely  a  word.  They 
sat  wondering  what  it  was  all  about.  The  first  session  of  the 
Sunday-school  was  a  disappointment  to  them.  They  had 
heard  from  other  children  what  their  Sunday-school  was  like. 
They  had  seen  the  children  come  home  from  school  laugh- 
ing, chatting,  happy.  But  there  was  nothing  here  to  make 
one  happy. 

The  didactic  tone  of  the  young  student  and  the  evident  lack 
of  interest  on  the  part  of  the  children  made  Conrad  uneasy. 
He  could  not  exactly  say  how  and  where  the  fault  lay,  but 
there  was  something  wrong  with  the  school.  He  confided  his 
misgivings  to  Kolb.     The  latter  took  a  broader  outlook. 

"  The  boy,"  Kolb  said,  referring  to  the  teacher,  "  is  not 
at  fault.  It  is  a  difficult  job  we  have  undertaken.  The 
other  Sunday-schools,  those  of  the  church,  have  back  of  them 
centuries  of  method,  tradition,  manners.  They  have  been 
molded  and  adapted  for  generations.  They  are  now  second 
nature  with  children.  Their  teachers  travel  over  a  beaten 
track.  We,  on  the  other  hand,  have  to  build  up  something, 
we  have  to  construct  something  out  of  our  theories.  That  is 
no  easy  matter." 

Indeed  it  was  not  easy.  For  six  Sundays  in  succession 
Gottfried  Conrad,  in  common  with  several  others  of  the  faith- 
ful members  of  the  Freidenkerverein,  compelled  their  chil- 
dren to  sit  through  an  hour  and  a  half  every  Sunday  morning 
at  the  Sunday-school  and  listen  to  stupid  speeches  by  the 
young  student.  The  children  conceived  during  these  weeks 
a  hatred  not  only  for  the  young  man,  but  for  the  German 
language  in  which  he  was  speaking.  If  the  man  had  only 
spoken  English,  perhaps  they  would  have  understood  him, 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE  47 

perhaps  the  sessions  would  have  ceased  to  be  such  an  agoniz- 
ing boredom ! 

In  the  middle  of  May  the  experiment  was  dropped.  Kolb 
and  Conrad  saw  that  the  school  was  a  failure  and  their  keep- 
ing it  up  was  only  antagonizing  the  children.  Gottfried  was 
pondering  over  the  lesson  the  experiment  had  taught  him. 
He  was  running  up  against  a  stone  wall  in  this  struggle  of 
his  against  the  church  and  priestcraft.  The  New  World 
would  not  take  his  ideas  seriously.  There  was  a  long  strug- 
gle ahead  of  him,  a  sad,  bitter  struggle.  However,  he  did 
not  despair.  He  was  young;  they,  the  Lassalleans,  were 
young;  and  their  cause  was  young,  so  young.  .  .  .  Courage, 
nur  Muth  and  they  would  get  ahead  —  yes,  they  would! 
They  had  reason  on  their  side  and  science.  Marx's  Capital 
was  showing  plainly  that  they  could  not  lose!  Yes,  if 
Freddy  were  only  bigger  and  his  questions  could  be  an- 
swered in  grown-up  terms.  But  Freddy  was  a  child  and  the 
questions  were  numerous  and  annoying. 

One  day,  more  than  a  year  later,  Freddy  suddenly  became 
involved  in  a  quarrel  with  two  boys  his  own  age  —  eight 
years.  A  sister  of  one  of  the  boys,  a  girl  of  ten,  took  her 
brother's  side  against  Freddy  and  called  him  a  liar. 

"  You  are  a  liar  yourself,"  Freddy  replied. 

"  What  if  I  am?  "  the  girl  said  archly.  "  I  can  lie  if  I 
want  to,  you  can't  —  you  mustn't!  " 

"Why?"  Freddy  queried,  perplexed  by  the  odd  twist 
which  the  quarrel  between  them  had  taken. 

"  Why,  why  ?  "  the  girl  mimicked  him.  "  I  can  lie  be- 
cause I  go  to  church.  When  I  confess  that  I  lied,  I  am  for- 
given. All  my  sins  are  forgiven.  But  your  sins  are  never 
forgiven.  When  you  lie  you  become  more  and  more  wicked. 
You  don't  go  to  church,  you  have  no  one  to  save  you.     You 


48  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

and  your  father  and  mother  are  heathens,  see!  Just  like 
them  heathens  in  the  Bible.     See!  " 

Freddy  had  forgotten  the  quarrel  and  ran  home  to  his 
mother. 

"Are  we  heathens,  Mother?  Mabel  Ryan  says  we  are 
heathens,"  he  said  darkly.     "  What  is  a  heathen?  " 

Anna  did  not  quite  grasp  the  significance  of  her  son's 
question  and  made  him  tell  her  all  that  had  transpired  be- 
tween himself  and  Mabel. 

She  was  expecting  Conrad  any  moment  and  made  no  an- 
swer. At  the  table,  before  Gottfried  had  taken  a  mouthful 
of  food,  Freddy  rattled  off  the  story  to  him  of  his  fight  with 
Mabel  and  her  brother  which  culminated  in  her  calling  them 
all  heathens. 

Conrad  had  had  a  bad  day  at  the  shop.  Several  alterca- 
tions with  the  foreman  had  arisen.  This  made  him  unusually 
weary  that  evening.  He  was  curt  with  his  son,  so  curt  that 
Freddy,  who  was  accustomed  to  have  more  attention  paid  to 
him,  was  taken  aback.  He  was  pained,  grieved.  Conrad 
had  made  no  denial  that  they  were  heathens.  He  merely 
told  him  not  to  enter  into  discussions  with  foolish  girls. 
Freddy  was  consumed  with  rage. 

In  vain  did  Gottfried  try  to  placate  his  son  as  the  meal 
progressed  and  his  weariness  subsided.  Freddy  ate  in  si- 
lence and  slunk  out  of  the  house  as  soon  as  the  meal  was 
finished. 

He  was  raving  mad  with  his  father.  Mabel's  brother  had 
once  called  his  father  "  Greenhorn  "  and  Freddy  had  sent 
the  boy  home  bleeding.  But  now  —  now  he  was  himself 
thinking  his  father  was  a  greenhorn.  Yes,  his  father  was  a 
greenhorn,  he  was  a  foreigner,  he  was  a  heathen  —  Mabel 
was  right. 

Was  she?     His  fists  clenched  together.    He  was  boiling 


THE  WEB  OF  LIFE  49 

over  with  rage.  He  would  show  them !  They  couldn't  taunt 
him !  He  was  an  American.  He  was  born  here.  He  would 
teach  them  a  lesson.     Just  let  them  come  on  —  come  on ! 

He  could  not  stand  still.  He  had  to  do  something,  to  give 
vent  to  his  pent  feelings,  and  ran  down  the  street. 

Half-way  down  the  next  block  he  came  upon  a  company 
of  boys  his  own  age  who  had  got  hold  of  a  little  dog  and 
were  tormenting  him.  They  pulled  his  tail,  pinched  his 
ears,  dug  into  his  ribs,  and  howled  for  joy  when  the  emaciated 
mongrel  showed  his  teeth. 

"  What  are  you  torturing  that  dog  for?  "  Freddy  shouted. 
"  It  is  not  your  dog."  He  shoved  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  released  the  mongrel  and  waited  until  it  was  well 
out  of  the  reach  of  its  captors.  Then,  putting  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  he  swaggered  past  the  group  of  little  boys  in  si- 
lence. 

They  all  gazed  at  him,  but  no  one  seemed  to  have  any 
desire  to  respond  to  his  challenging  attitude.  When  he  was 
well  to  the  end  of  the  block  Freddy  heard  derisive  laughter 
and  knew  it  was  intended  for  him.  But  he  was  too  weary 
to  go  back.    His  craving  to  fight  was  gone. 

It  was  dark  and  his  mother  had  already  been  looking  for 
him.  She  wanted  to  make  up  to  him  for  the  rudeness  of 
his  father.  She  took  him  in  her  arms  —  a  thing  she  had 
not  done  in  a  long  while.  He  wanted  to  cry,  but  was 
ashamed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AS  THE   YEARS  ROLLED   ON 

HIS  father  stood  at  his  bedside  fully  dressed.  His 
face  was  tense.     Freddy  sat  bolt  upright. 

"  Mother  is  ill,"  Gottfried  said  with  a  slight  huskiness  in 
his  voice.     "  Better  sit  by  her  side  while  I  go  for  a  doctor." 

Freddy  hurried  into  his  trousers,  threw  his  sweater  over 
his  shoulders  and  slipped  into  the  bedroom.  It  was  two 
o'clock  in  the  night  and  his  mother  was  moaning.  As  he 
was  looking  at  her,  her  face  suddenly  became  distorted  with 
pain,  her  lips  began  to  twitch  and  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  He  was  alarmed  and  would  have  screamed,  but  he 
recalled  that  he  was  alone  in  the  house  now,  that  his  father 
had  left  him  as  the  guardian  of  his  sick  mother,  and  he 
mastered  his  fear. 

The  contortions  and  twitching  of  Anna's  face  and  mouth 
left  as  suddenly  as  they  came.  She  became  aware  of  her  son, 
smiled  through  her  tears  and  motioned  to  him  to  come  closer. 
He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  she  drew  him  to  her. 

Freddy  knew  that  he  ought  not  to  lean  his  head  against 
his  mother,  that  it  must  be  heavy  for  her.  But  he  was  all 
tenderness  —  he  could  not  make  a  move.  What  if  his 
mother  should  die!  His  father  had  gone  for  the  doctor. 
What  if  this  were  the  last  time  they  two  were  together,  he 
and  his  mother.  ...  He  experienced  a  great  desire  to  weep, 
to  weep  right  there  on  his  mother's  shoulder.     But  — 

The  hand  which  clasped  him  had  suddenly  grown  limp. 

50 


AS  THE  YEARS  ROLLED  ON  51 

He  rose  up  quickly.  His  mother  was  writhing  in  pain.  She 
rolled  her  head  like  an  animal  that  had  been  mortally  struck. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  was  trembling.  He  looked  to- 
ward the  door —  If  Father  only  came —  His  mother, 
however,  was  again  smiling  at  him;  the  paroxysm  had  sub- 
sided. 

The  waves  of  pain  came  and  went,  their  arrival  accom- 
panied by  spasmodic  groans;  their  receding  marked  by  the 
weak  smiles  of  his  mother. 

Vaguely  Freddy  realized  what  it  was  all  about.  He  had 
heard  the  neighbors  say  that  his  mother  would  soon  give  birth 
to  a  child.  But  from  that  point  on  he  was  not  clear.  He  had 
never  thought  about  the  subject  before.  He  wished  Father 
would  return.  He  listened  eagerly  to  every  noise.  What, 
were  the  elevators  running  at  night,  too?  He  was  going  to 
ask  his  mother  and  checked  himself.  Then  there  was  a 
rumbling  of  a  wagon  rolling  by.  Strange  that  people  should 
be  riding  so  late  at  night  —  what  business  compelled  them 
to?  Oh,  maybe  they  were  doctors  going  out  to  sick  people 
in  the  middle  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Would  the  doctor,  would 
his  father  ever  come? 

His  feet  were  cold.  He  put  them  under  the  quilt  and 
was  warm,  comfortable.  But  he  had  to  change  his  position 
a  bit.  He  twisted  about;  he  was  reclining  now.  His  body 
was  resting  on  the  chair,  his  feet  in  his  mother's  bed.  It 
was  great,  the  warmth  delightful.  He  felt  so  nice  and  happy. 
He  swam  in  a  sea  of  joy.  His  mother  was  petting  him  .  .  . 
and  she  showed  him  the  baby,  his  little  sister.  He  insisted 
on  carrying  her.  Mother  objected,  but  he  gained  his  point. 
He  carried  his  little  sister  out  into  the  street  and  showed  her 
to  the  neighbors'  boys.  They  tickled  her  and  she  puckered 
up  her  lips  and  gurgled  so  funnily.  Then  he  put  the  little 
girl  in  the  carriage  again  and  wheeled  her  —  he  came  down 


52  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

the  street,  very  haughty,  very  important.  All  the  children 
were  envying  him. 

His  father  was  lifting  him  in  his  arms.  Freddy  was 
awake  again  but  his  head  was  heavy.  He  saw  another  man, 
the  doctor,  he  thought!  Gottfried  carried  him  to  his  bed. 
He  pulled  the  quilt  over  his  head  —  he  was  chilly  now.  The 
doctor  was  calling  for  hot  water.  Gottfried  got  busy  with 
the  stove.  Freddy  heard  him  remove  the  covers  and  then 
he  smelled  coffee,  and  his  mother  handed  him  jelly  rolls 
which  tasted  delicious.  ... 

When  he  woke  Freddy  heard  a  shrill  little  cry  coming 
from  the  bedroom.  A  big,  fat  woman  was  busying  herself 
about  the  stove.  His  father  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
undecided,  apparently  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  him- 
self. 

"  Oh,  you  are  up,"  said  Gottfried  when  he  perceived 
Freddy  fully  dressed.  He  cleared  a  place  for  him  at  the 
table,  which  was  cluttered  up  with  all  sorts  of  things.  While 
Freddy  was  munching  a  roll  Gottfried  poured  the  coffee. 

"  Here  is  some  cheese,"  Conrad  said  as  he  shoved  a  paper 
in  front  of  his  son.  He  was  helpless  in  domestic  matters 
and  felt  apologetic.  While  Freddy  was  eating,  his  father 
went  into  the  bedroom.  The  woman  —  Mrs.  Miller  was  her 
name  —  was  there  too.  Anna  apparently  was  drowsing. 
Both  Gottfried  and  Mrs.  Miller  were  looking  at  a  pillow 
which  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  It  was  from  the  pillow 
that  the  faint  cry  was  coming. 

Mrs.  Miller  came  out  of  the  bedroom  and  Gottfried  fol- 
lowed. 

"  How  long  do  you  think  he  will  last?  "  he  asked  in  a 
whisper. 

"  He  will  be  going  soon  now,"  Mrs.  Miller  replied. 
"  They  usually  last  five  or  six  hours  when  they  are  born 


AS  THE  YEARS  ROLLED  ON  53 

that  early.  He  is  all  tired  out,  poor  little  one.  It'll  be  a 
relief  to  him.  But  he  was  a  strong  little  child  —  what  a 
pity  this  had  happened." 

Gottfried  stepped  back  into  the  bedroom  and  Freddy  saw 
his  father  bend  over  the  pillow  in  which  the  tiny  infant  was 
fighting  against  death,  fighting  bravely,  as  the  woman  was 
telling,  with  his  wee  little  frame  that  had  come  into  the 
world  prematurely. 

Freddy  was  wondering  what  all  this  meant.  Why  could 
not  his  brother  live?  Why  was  he  born  too  early?  What 
did  it  mean  anyway?  His  coffee  was  getting  cold  and  his 
cheese  lay  untouched.  Even  the  jelly  roll  which  Gottfried 
had  laid  to  one  side  for  him  left  him  indifferent.  He  was 
watching  his  father's  every  motion.  Gottfried  stood  stoop- 
ing over  the  pillow.  It  seemed  to  Freddy  that  his  father 
trembled.     It  could  not  be  that  he  was  crying? 

It  was  time  to  go  to  school  and  Freddy  went  down.  When 
he  came  home  to  dinner,  the  pillow  he  had  seen  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  in  the  morning  was  missing,  and  with  it  the  shrill, 
weak  cry.  His  mother  was  lying  in  bed  apparently  asleep, 
but  he  heard  her  moan  from  time  to  time.  Gottfried  tried 
to  look  cheerful.  He  smiled  at  Freddy  several  times  as  he 
was  serving  him  a  delicatessen  dinner  and  urging  his  son 
to  take  a  little  more  of  that  or  the  other  thing, 

Gottfried's  smile  did  not  set  Freddy  at  ease,  however.  He 
wanted  to  ask  his  father  about  the  baby,  where  it  was,  what 
had  become  of  it,  when  it  had  died  —  he  felt  that  it  had 
died  —  but  he  was  ashamed.  Only  grown  people  talked 
about  such  things.  He  ate  quickly  and  ran  down  the 
stairs.  He  lingered  longer  about  the  house.  Several  of  the 
neighbor  women  asked  him  about  his  mother.  Was  she 
resting  well?     None  of  them  mentioned  the  baby. 

He  was  glad  when  school  was  over  and  he  could  go  home 


54  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

again.  He  found  his  father  busying  himself  with  Henry. 
Gottfried  had  just  fed  the  invalid  and  was  now  adjusting 
him  in  a  sort  of  overgrown  baby  chair  in  which  Henry  spent 
the  hours  he  was  not  in  bed.  There  was  a  meekness,  a  sub- 
missiveness  about  his  father's  manner  which  made  Freddy 
uneasy.     He  was  keyed  with  anxiety. 

"  Hungry?  "  Gottfried  turned  from  the  invalid,  when  he 
had  made  him  comfortable  in  his  chair,  to  Freddy.  He  was 
glad  to  see  him,  and  he  showed  it. 

Freddy  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  his  father  in  em- 
barrassment. Gottfried's  eyes  were  tender  and  patient. 
Freddy  was  overv/helmed  by  a  sense  of  tragedy. 

His  father  now  settled  in  a  chair  and  pulled  him  up  to  him- 
self by  the  arm.  He  took  off  his  son's  hat  and  began  to  part 
his  hair  with  his  hand  in  orderly  fashion. 

"  Can  I  see  him?  "  Freddy  gasped. 

"  See  who?  "  Gottfried  asked,  gazing  steadily  at  the  child. 
He  was  wondering  whether  his  son  was  old  enough  to  be 
initiated  into  the  mystery  of  existence. 

"The  baby  —  can  I  see  the  baby?  "  Freddy  said,  as  his 
eyes  filled. 

"  He  is  gone,"  said  Gottfried,  still  gazing  at  him.  "  He 
is  dead." 

The  unhappy  look  that  came  into  the  child's  eyes  unnerved 
him  for  the  moment.  He  longed  to  tell  little  Freddy  that 
the  baby  had  gone  to  heaven,  whence  it  came,  to  play  with 
the  angels  there.  He  had  been  told  such  stories  when  he 
was  a  child.  And  death  seemed  to  lose  so  much  of  its  grim- 
ness  when  one  knew  that  it  merely  meant  going  to  heaven 
to  play  with  the  angels.  ...  It  would  have  been  nice  to  re- 
lieve the  tragedy  in  his  son's  face  and  eyes  by  putting  such  an 
angelic  border  about  the  cold,  awful  fact  of  human  disso- 
lution.    But  no!     Conrad  sobered  and  purged  the  thought 


AS  THE  YEARS  ROLLED  ON  SS 

from  his  mind.  He  must  raise  his  son  free  of  all  religious 
superstitions,  no  matter  how  much  relief  these  superstitions 
afforded.  It  was  hard  to  deviate  from  the  beaten  track. 
But  that  was  what  the  free-thinker  had  to  do. 

He  picked  up  Freddy  and  set  him  on  his  knee.  He 
smiled  at  him,  talked  to  him,  told  him  not  to  worry  over  the 
baby.  In  a  year  Mother  would  have  another  baby,  another 
little  brother  for  him.  That  other  little  fellow  would  be 
nice.     He  would  not  be  born  too  soon  and  would  not  die. 

Gottfried's  words  and  caresses  had  the  opposite  effect  upon 
the  child  from  that  intended.  Freddy's  suppressed  emotions 
burst  and  swept  everything  before  them.  He  was  shaken 
with  sobs. 

Anna  heard  this  and  called  him  weakly.  Gottfried  led 
Freddy  to  her  bed.  She  put  her  arm  about  his  neck,  brought 
his  face  close  to  hers,  and  kissed  his  tears  away.  She  did 
not  speak,  but  the  pressure  of  her  hand,  her  caress,  had  a 
quieting  effect  upon  her  son.  He  was  himself  again.  Gott- 
fried lit  the  gas  and  began  talking  about  supper. 

Mrs.  Conrad  left  the  bed  at  the  end  of  a  week,  but  the 
next  morning,  at  the  urgent  advice  of  the  physician,  she 
took  to  it  again.  She  was  not  well;  her  strength  was  lim- 
ited, the  doctor  said,  and  he  proscribed  all  work  and  strain 
for  a  month.  Also  she  must  not  worry.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  doctor's  attitude  and  manner  of  speech  which 
warned  Gottfried  that  things  were  not  well  with  his  wife. 

He  was  home  again  in  the  evening  now.  Often,  indeed, 
he  would  come  an  hour  earlier  from  the  shop  and  relieve 
Anna  of  whatever  work  he  could.  His  father's  anxiety  com- 
municated itself  to  Freddy.  He  was  at  his  mother's  beck 
and  nod. 

As  Anna  watched  her  husband  and  son  do  much  of  the 


56  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

work  that  normally  should  be  hers,  she  was  frequently  over- 
taken with  a  longing  for  home  and  friends.  If  her  sisters 
had  only  been  near.  But  they  were  all  marrying  in  the 
Old  World  and  they  were  marrying  into  the  tradesman  class. 
They  and  their  husbands  would  never  come  to  America. 
Her  brothers,  likewise,  had  all  drifted  out  of  the  classes 
which  supplied  emigrants  to  the  New  World.  They  were 
engaged  in  commercial  pursuits.  Correspondence  with  her 
family  was  becoming  increasingly  rare.  Soon  she  would  be 
entirely  alone  in  the  New  World,  except  for  Freddy  and 
Conrad. 

In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  reflections  there  stood  out 
like  a  bright  light  the  changed  attitude  of  Conrad,  his  kind- 
ness toward  her,  toward  his  family.  It  moved  her  deeply  to 
see  Conrad  tend  to  their  invalid  son,  trying  to  make  good  to 
the  child,  as  much  as  this  was  possible,  the  temporary  loss 
of  his  mother's  care.  April  was  drawing  to  a  close  and  on 
Sunday  Gottfried  took  the  invalid  out  for  an  airing.  Freddy 
stayed  with  his  mother,  who  was  still  in  bed. 

The  first  week  in  May  the  doctor  permitted  Anna  to  leave 
her  bed.  But  he  warned  her  against  work  and  strain  of 
any  kind.  Infractions  of  these  rules  would  mean  that  she 
would  have  to  take  to  her  bed  again. 

"  These  miscarriages,"  the  physician  said,  "  sometimes 
batter  a  woman  up  worse  than  the  hardest  case  of  child- 
birth." 

Anna  had  got  off  easy,  he  said.  For  a  while  he  had 
feared  more  serious  consequences. 

The  doctor's  predictions  were  only  too  true.  Anna  could 
not  tax  her  energies  in  the  least.  The  moment  she  did  so 
she  at  once  became  fagged  and  exhausted.  Her  physical 
fatigue  would  promptly  communicate  itself  to  the  brain;  and 
she  would  become  depressed.     She  was  not  gaining.     Her 


AS  THE  YEARS  ROLLED  ON  57 

skin  was  assuming  a  permanent  yellow.  Her  frame,  too, 
was  changing.  Her  formerly  straight  shoulders  now  showed 
a  slight  stoop.  The  lines  of  her  body  were  rapidly  disap- 
pearing. She  was  becoming  very  thin.  The  girlish  waist, 
which  she  had  retained  up  to  this  last  childbearing,  now 
seemed  to  have  vanished.  She  often  surveyed  herself  these 
days  in  the  mirror  ruefully. 

His  wife's  condition  troubled  Conrad.  He,  too,  longed 
for  a  friend  with  whom  he  could  talk  over  his  domestic  wor- 
ries. But  he  was  too  sensitive  about  letting  any  of  his 
comrades  in  arms  know  of  these  things.  Once,  however,  his 
great  worry  got  the  better  of  his  pride  and  he  bared  his  trou- 
bles to  Heinrich  Kolb,  who  was  now  editing  a  socialist 
weekly,  Der  Kampf.  Kolb  immediately  had  an  idea. 
Whatever  Mrs.  Conrad's  condition  was,  she  must  at  least 
have  good  medical  attention.  She  must  see  a  doctor  who 
could  be  trusted.  He  knew  such  a  doctor.  He  was  a  Ger- 
man, a  radical,  a  forty-eighter.  While  this  physician  was 
not  taking  part  in  socialist  agitation  openly,  he  had  a  heart, 
Kolb  said.  On  the  quiet  this  doctor  —  Seelenfreund  was  his 
name  —  helped  the  paper  with  frequent  financial  contribu- 
tions. Dr.  Seelenfreund  was  always  ready  to  help  a  fellow- 
countrj^man  in  distress.  Kolb  gave  Gottfried  a  letter  to  this 
physician. 

With  all  his  kindness  and  humanity  Dr.  Seelenfreund  could 
do  little  for  Mrs.  Conrad.  He  too  laid  stress  upon  the  neces- 
sity of  good  food,  plenty  of  rest,  no  worry  and  —  time.  Time 
was  the  main  thing.  The  untimely  birth  of  her  child  had 
upset  Anna  internally,  he  said.  It  had  that  sort  of  effect 
upon  women  sometimes.  Such  cases  did  not  yield  to  radical 
treatment.  Time  and  nature  alone  were  the  best  remedy. 
In  time  she  would  get  stronger.  But  nature  could  be  greatly 
assisted  by  good  care  and  little  exertion. 


58  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

After  supper  Freddy  followed  his  father  into  the  street. 
"  What  did  the  doctor  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

Again  Gottfried  was  debating  with  himself  whether  to 
give  his  son  an  evasive  answer  or  to  tell  him  the  truth.  He 
decided  to  tell  the  truth. 

"  It  will  be  a  long  time,"  he  said,  *'  before  Mother  gets 
well  —  it  may  take  a  year.  In  the  meantime,  we  can  do  a 
lot  to  help  her  get  well  by  letting  her  do  as  little  work  as 
possible." 

A  slight  twitching  ran  over  Freddy's  face.  He  turned  his 
head  away  from  his  father  as  if  attracted  by  something. 
In  reality  he  was  trying  to  hide  the  tears  which  he  could  not 
keep  back. 

"  Run  along  and  play,"  said  Gottfried,  and  started  off, 
pretending  that  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  the  store  for  his 
tobacco. 

Freddy  went  around  the  block.  In  front  of  a  blacksmith 
shop,  now  closed  for  the  night,  he  stopped  and  let  his  tears 
and  sobs  have  full  sway  for  a  brief  space.  Then  he  wiped 
his  face  and  ran  home  again. 

Freddy  now  completely  relieved  his  mother  of  the  care  of 
his  invalid  brother.  He  carried  Henry  down  the  stairs  or 
up  on  the  roof.  He  took  him  out  for  an  airing;  he  dressed 
and  undressed  him.  Under  no  circumstances  would  he  let 
his  mother  strain  herself  in  the  lifting  of  the  invalid  who  was 
as  immovable  as  a  log.  He  did  his  chores  as  if  they  were 
the  most  natural  thing  for  him  to  do.  Gottfried  would  often 
look  at  his  son  and  ponder.  There  was  a  pronounced  streak 
of  kindliness  in  Freddy  which  he  himself  had  never  had. 
The  boy  must  have  got  it  from  his  mother. 

It  was  the  middle  of  April.  The  day  had  been  unusually 
mild,     Freddy  felt  lighthearted  and  made  the  three  blocks 


AS  THE  YEARS  ROLLED  ON  59 

from  the  school  to  his  home  at  a  run.  He  had  an  idea.  He 
would  take  little  Henry  down  for  an  airing  and  Mother  must 
come  with  them.  They  would  go  to  the  East  River  and 
thence  to  the  Park.  They  would  take  a  long,  long  walk. 
It  would  be  delightful. 

As  he  was  running  up  the  steps  to  his  home  he  passed  a 
woman  in  the  hall  who  looked  at  him  queerly.  He  felt  that 
something  had  happened,  and  wondered  what.  He  opened 
the  door  of  the  house  in  haste,  but  he  shut  it  very  slowly  — 
he  had  taken  in  the  situation.  Little  Henry  was  sick.  The 
doctor  was  there,  standing  beside  the  bed  speaking  to  his 
mother.  Freddy  caught  these  words:  "Oh,  yes,"  the  doc- 
tor was  saying,  "  he  must  have  been  sick  for  some  tiipe,  but 
you  did  not  notice  it.  That  is  the  way  it  goes  with  these 
cases.  They  go  on  ailing  for  a  long  while,  but  we  become 
accustomed  to  their  distorted  features  and  so  fail  to  notice 
any  difference.  It  is  an  abscess  on  the  liver  and  it  has  burst. 
He  may  last  a  few  days  yet,  or  he  may  go  sooner." 

Freddy  sat  up  a  good  part  of  the  night  with  his  father, 
watching  little  Henry  gradually  yielding  himself  up  to  death. 
Anna  was  in  bed,  pretending  that  she  wanted  to  rest.  In 
reality  she  was  crying.  Freddy  and  his  father  spoke  little 
to  one  another;  each  was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts. 
Freddy  was  trying  hard  to  recall  how  his  brother  looked  and 
acted  before  that  fateful  accident.  He  had  heard  his  mother 
tell  about  little  Henry,  how  nice  and  lively  he  had  been,  and 
from  her  description  of  him,  he  was  now  constructing  pictures 
that  he  thought  were  memories. 

And  Gottfried  looked  at  the  wan  face  of  his  invalid  son, 
which  was  becoming  more  and  more  corpselike,  and  thought 
of  the  thirteen  years  he  had  been  in  America.  They  had 
been  hard  years.  Of  course,  there  were  flashes  of  happiness. 
Also  they  had  been  years  of  growth  —  he  had  broadened  in 


6o  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

these  years  —  had  learned  much.  But  he  had  drunk  his  gall 
and  wormwood.  His  family  life  was  beaten  and  battered. 
Anna  was  a  sick  woman. 

Freddy  felt  his  father's  gaze  upon  him  and  when  he  looked 
up,  questioning,  Gottfried  turned  his  eyes  on  the  invalid  once 
more.  He  had  been  looking  at  Freddy,  and  thinking  of  that 
Sunday  when  he  had  so  solemnly  founded  the  House  of 
Conrad  in  the  New  World.  Inwardly  he  laughed  sadly  and 
bitterly  at  the  memory  of  that  day.  How  deceitful  life  was ! 
He  had  pictured  to  himself  his  future  house,  the  House  of 
Conrad,  as  being  a  milestone  in  the  New  World,  a  landmark! 
And  now  a  part  of  that  House  of  Conrad  was  about  to  be 
taken  out  of  his  home  and  to  be  buried  in  the  ground  —  his 
interest  in  cremation  had  not  waned,  but  somehow  it  did  not 
extend  to  his  invalid  child  —  and  Freddy  alone,  eleven-year- 
old  Freddy,  was  his  only  promise  for  that  much-longed-for 
house. 

Conrad  quickly  bent  over  his  dying  son.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  little  Henry  had  ceased  breathing.  But,  no,  he  was 
mistaken.  His  overwrought  nerves  had  deceived  him.  He 
turned  his  attention  to  Freddy  once  more.  It  was  past 
eleven  o'clock,  time  for  him  to  go  to  sleep.  Freddy  made  no 
remonstrance.  He  was  tired.  He  crawled  under  the  quilt 
and  was  asleep. 

He  woke  with  a  holiday  feeling.  He  could  not  explain  how 
or  why,  but  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  it  were  a  Sunday.  The 
sun  was  streaming  into  the  house  and  through  the  raised 
window  came  a  delightful  breeze.  His  father  was  home. 
He  was  talking  with  another  man,  a  stranger.  His  mother 
stood  by,  silent. 

In  an  instant  the  holiday  feeling  fled.  In  the  parlor  on 
two  chairs  stood  a  coffin,  and  in  it  lay  Henry.  He  was 
washed  and  dressed  and  his  hair  was  coRibed,     His  eyes  were 


AS  THE  YEARS  ROLLED  ON  61 

closed  and  his  face  now  looked  more  normal  and  natural  than 
Freddy  ever  remembered  seeing  it. 

Late  in  September  of  the  same  year,  Gottfried  and  his 
wife  sought  Dr.  Seelenfreund  once  more.  Their  mission 
was  a  delicate  one.  Both  Anna  and  Gottfried  were  lonesome 
since  Henry  died.  There  was  a  sense  of  something  miss- 
ing in  the  house.  Freddy  was  a  big  boy  —  was  in  fact  get- 
ting to  be  a  little  man.  Gottfried  and  his  wife  were  still 
young  —    They  wanted  a  child. 

Dr.  Seelenfreund  pretended  not  to  notice  the  crimson  in 
Gottfried's  face  as  he  stated  his  wish  to  the  physician.  The 
doctor  questioned  Anna  minutely  about  the  general  condition 
of  her  health ;  made  her  tell  circumstantially  the  story  of  the 
miscarriage.  Then  he  ordered  her  into  the  examining  room, 
where  she  remained  for  twenty  minutes  while  Gottfried,  in 
the  next  room,  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair  as  he  studied  the 
pictures  on  the  wall  and  the  instruments  in  the  glass  case. 

The  verdict  of  the  physician  —  for  such  was  the  spirit  in 
which  Gottfried  and  Anna  took  his  words  —  was  not  favor- 
able. Mrs.  Conrad  would  not  have  a  child  —  not  for  some 
time  anyway,  he  said.  Such  accidents  as  the  one  she  had 
gone  through,  often,  and  in  an  unaccountable  manner,  unfit 
women  for  future  childbearing.  It  was  even  likely  that  she 
would  never  have  a  child  at  all. 

Gottfried  stared  stonily  from  the  physician  to  his  wife.  As 
he  helped  Anna  with  her  coat  he  felt  her  trembling.  The 
physician  tried  to  cheer  them.  They  were  really  not  so 
badly  off,  he  was  saying,  better  off  than  thousands  of  others. 
For  they  had  a  son.  Many  a  well-known  family  had  been 
started  by  an  only  son. 

They  had  plenty  of  time  to  ponder  over  the  doctor's  words, 
for  it  was  Saturday  and  Gottfried  was  home  the  rest  of  the 


62  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

day  and  all  day  Sunday.  They  moved  about  the  house 
quietly,  and  whenever  Freddy  came  near  one  or  the  other  of 
his  parents  he  felt  their  eyes  rest  upon  him  with  a  pathetic 
tenderness  he  had  never  observed  in  them  before.  He  was 
wondering  what  the  meaning  of  it  could  be.  He  wanted  to 
ask  his  parents,  but  he  felt  awkward. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  RETURN   OF   CONRAD 

WELL,  it  has  been  a  pretty  long  furlough,"  Conrad 
murmured  to  himself  as  if  in  response  to  a 
question.  He  was  returning  from  a  meeting  of  the  board 
of  managers  of  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung  late  on  a  November 
evening.  He  had  been  a  member  of  the  board  of  managers 
of  the  socialist  paper  ever  since  it  was  started  nearly  two 
years  back,  but  had  rarely  attended  meetings.  What  had 
transpired  at  the  meeting  that  evening  was  giving  him  food 
for  reflection  and  memories. 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  remained  behind.  The  movement  had 
grown  apace  and  the  youngbloods  he  met  that  evening  cer- 
tainly made  him  feel  strange.  He  went  over  in  his  mind 
the  last  few  years.  He  was  home  night  after  night, 
tending  to  his  ailing  wife  and  his  invalid  son.  Only  on 
occasions  of  unusual  character  did  he  deviate  from  tliis  course 
and  ascend  a  platform  to  make  an  address.  And  now  he 
was  coming  back  to  the  movement.  The  invalid  was  dead; 
Anna,  while  not  entirely  well,  was  much  stronger.  It  seemed 
as  if,  with  the  departure  of  the  invalid,  a  cloud  had  been 
raised  from  before  their  eyes.     Freddy  was  a  big  boy  already. 

Conrad  mused.  He  saw  ahead  of  him  a  life  of  activity  in 
the  socialist  and  labor  movement.  He  welcomed  activity 
now.  Especially  since  Dr.  Seelenfreund  said  that  they  would 
have  no  more  children.    The  youngbloods  in  the  movement  ? 

63 


64  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

They  had  made  him  feel  uncomfortable  for  a  while.  But 
now  he  laughed;  his  confidence  was  back.  They  and  he 
would  be  speaking  in  different  tongues.  They  were  fresh 
from  the  Fatherland;  he  had  gone  through  much  in  the  New 
World.  His  speeches  would  deal  with  life  as  he  had  known 
it,  with  the  problems  of  the  poor  as  he  had  seen  them,  suffered 
them.  His  thoughts  went  back  to  the  meeting.  For  nearly 
two  years  now  they  had  had  a  socialist  newspaper  in  New 
York,  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung.  For  two  years  this  paper  had 
been  thundering  daily  against  oppression  and  injustice ;  every 
issue  was  a  threat  of  vengeance  to  the  exploiters  and  oppres- 
sors .  .  .  And  this  from  such  small  beginnings.  He  looked 
back  fourteen  years  when  they,  the  handful  of  Lassalleans, 
with  Heinrich  Kolb  and  himself  at  the  head,  laid  the  foun- 
dations of  a  socialist  movement  among  the  German  work- 
men of  New  York.  .  .  .  Not  bad,  not  bad. 

His  memory,  like  the  lense  of  a  telescope,  was  now  adjusted 
on  that  evening  when  the  first  number  of  the  Arbeiter  Zeit- 
ung was  to  appear.  In  spite  of  the  troubled  state  of  his  home, 
he  had  slipped  out  of  the  house  and  spent  the  greater  part  of 
the  night  in  the  office  of  the  socialist  paper  that  was  about 
to  be  born.  He  recalled  distinctly  the  tense,  solemn  expres- 
sions on  the  faces  of  the  writers,  the  editors,  as  they  prepared 
the  copy  for  that  first  issue.  He  had  gone  to  see  the  composi- 
tors at  work;  had  read  the  first  editorial  in  proof  which  was 
still  wet.  .  .  .  And  then  came  the  rumbling  of  the  press. 
.  .  .  His  eyes  were  moist,  but  he  need  not  be  ashamed  of 
that.  Editors,  writers,  compositors,  in  fact  every  one  who 
was  in  the  rooms  was  cutting  a  sorry  figure  trying  to  appear 
calm.  Some  one  brought  up  a  handful  of  papers  and  dis- 
tributed them;  Kolb,  the  editor,  receiving  the  first  copy;  he, 
Conrad,  the  second.  In  one  corner  of  the  paper  he  found 
a  list  of  names  of  the  board  of  managers,  of  the  men  who 


THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD  6$ 

for  years  had  worked  to  make  possible  the  publication  of  this 
socialist  organ.  His  name  headed  the  list  of  these  founders. 
It  was  inscribed  for  posterity  to  look  at  —  to  remember. 

Conrad's  return  to  active  participation  in  the  socialist 
movement  was  hailed  with  joy  by  Heinrich  Kolb.  These 
were  stirring  times  for  the  socialist  organ  and  its  editor.  The 
effects  of  Bismarck's  anti-socialist  laws  in  Germany  were  be- 
ginning to  make  themselves  felt  in  the  New  World  and 
especially  in  New  York.  Thousands  of  German  socialists 
had  fled  to  America.  While  Kolb  and  his  comrades  in 
the  socialist  movement  welcomed  these  newcomers  as  addi- 
tional recruits  in  the  army  of  the  American  proletariat,  Kolb 
was  just  a  little  apprehensive  of  the  viewpoint  of  these  men. 
In  theory  they  knew  socialism  to  perfection.  But  their 
ignorance  of  American  conditions,  American  industries, 
American  laws,  manifested  itself  only  too  often  and  clumsily. 
It  was  for  this  reason  that  Kolb  welcomed  the  return  of 
Conrad  to  the  movement.  His  fourteen  years  in  American 
shops  and  factories  gave  Conrad  an  experience  which  was 
worth  while  impressing  upon  the  younger  men.  Conrad 
knew  American  life  from  many  angles.  He  had  paid  rent 
in  the  New  World  for  fourteen  years  and  knew  the  evils  of 
the  tenements.  He  had  led  strikes  and  helped  build  organi- 
zations. 

The  first  speech  Conrad  made  was,  upon  Kolb's  order, 
given  two  columns  in  the  paper.  Kolb  himself  wrote  an  edi- 
torial about  it  which  consisted  largely  of  a  eulogy  of  the 
speaker  and  of  his  work  as  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  social- 
ist movement  in  America. 

"  The  Arbeiter  Zeitung,"  Kolb  wrote,  "  is  happy  to  see  this 
indefatigable  champion  of  the  American  proletariat  return 
to  his  wonted  place  on  the  public  platform.  We  have  missed 
his  good  counsel  for  some  years.     We  hope  henceforward  to 


66  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

see  our  comrade  retain  his  place  in  the  front  ranks  unin- 
terruptedly." 

Whenever  an  issue  arose  dealing  with  a  practical  phase  of 
city  life,  Kolb  would  warn  the  writer  of  the  particular  article 
to  consult  with  Conrad  and  get  his  views  on  the  question  be- 
fore writing  about  it.  The  attitude  which  Conrad  took  on 
the  particular  question  became  the  policy  of  the  Arbeiter  Zeit- 
ung,  and  Kolb  soon  found  out  that  this  attitude  was  right, 
that  his  readers  approved  of  it.  Conrad  was  close  to  the 
hearts  and  the  sentiments  of  the  German  workers  of  New 
York. 

At  meetings  Conrad's  name  would  invariably  be  placed 
at  the  bottom  of  the  list  now.  He  was  a  drawing  card;  the 
younger  and  less  important  speakers  came  first  —  for  him 
people  would  wait.  In  introducing  Conrad  the  chairman 
would  always  preface  his  remarks  with  a  few  words  about 
the  length  of  Conrad's  activity  in  the  socialist  movement  in 
America  for  the  benefit  of  those  in  the  audience  who  were 
hearing  and  seeing  the  man  for  the  first  time.  And  at  almost 
every  meeting  there  were  scores  of  such  men,  newcomers  who 
had  been  driven  to  the  New  World  by  the  Prussian  anti- 
socialist  laws. 

At  times  these  newcomers  would  make  Conrad  feel  old. 
As  he  walked  through  the  streets  of  Little  Germany  he 
would  often  hear  himself  pointed  out  as  "that  Conrad." 
These  younger  men  were  actually  drawing  barriers  between 
him  and  themselves  —  barriers  of  respect,  admiration,  rever- 
ence. Conrad,  Kolb  and  their  pioneer  friends  were  now 
frequently  referred  to  as  the  "  Fruhen,"  "  the  early  ones," 
by  the  younger  socialists.  The  younger  men  were  compelling 
them  to  take  themselves  seriously.  They  had  to  have  some 
one  to  look  up  to. 

The  calls  upon  Conrad  were  becoming  so  frequent  that  he 


THE  RETURN'  OF  CONRAD  6) 

was  hardly  ever  home  evenings.  The  excitement  of  this 
constant  coming  and  going,  the  applause  and  approbation 
that  he  received  nightly  from  large  Jiumbers  of  people, 
crowded  the  memory  of  the  visit  to  Dr.  Seelenfreund  and  his 
"  verdict "  well  to  the  back  of  his  brain.  It  was  compara- 
tively easy  now  for  Gottfried  to  dismiss  the  troublesome 
thought.     But  it  was  not  so  to  his  wife. 

Anna  Conrad,  spending  the  long  winter  evenings  and  fre- 
quently even  Sundays  alone,  was  brooding  over  the  fact  that 
never  again  would  she  have  babies  in  her  house.  Other 
women  might  wheel  baby  carriages,  but  not  she.  She  had 
often  in  the  first  years  of  her  married  life  wished  a  rest  from 
the  children.  She  was  tired  of  the  work  they  gave  her.  She 
complained  then —  Well,  she  would  have  plenty  of  rest 
now,  plenty  of  leisure.  God,  how  much  leisure!  She 
shuddered. 

She  could  not  free  herself  from  the  thought  of  babies.  She 
could  not  stifle  her  desire  for  them.  And  then  —  then  one 
day  she  found  that  she  could  think  of  babies  all  she  wished 
to,  could  get  really  excited  over  them.  Why,  how  foolish  of 
her  not  to  have  thought  of  it  sooner!  Why,  Freddy  —  he 
would  marry,  perhaps  only  in  half  a  dozen  years,  he  would 
have  children  and  then  she  would  have  babies  again.  There 
would  never  be  any  more  lonely  Sundays.  She  would  not 
let  Freddy's  wife  bother  about  making  meals  on  Sunday. 
No,  she  wouldn't.  She  would  have  them  —  her  daughter,  her 
son  and  their  little  infants,  with  her  Sundays,  always.  They 
would  all  eat  at  her  house.  And  the  babies  would  be  playing 
right  there  on  the  floor  in  front  of  her. 

From  the  rocker  in  which  she  sat,  plunged  in  visions,  she 
was  looking  at  the  floor.  She  was  alone  in  the  house  and  it 
was  Sunday  afternoon.  Gottfried  was  gone,  Freddy  was 
gone.     It  was  spring  outside.     The  laughter  of  children  rang 


68  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

through  the  open  window.  And  she  looked  at  the  floor  and 
saw  them  there  —  the  babies  —  her  Freddy's  children.  They 
were  learning  to  walk,  falling,  getting  up,  gurgling  sweetly 
and  extending  their  pudgy  little  hands.  It  was  so  much 
pleasure,  so  much  pleasure.  .  .  .  Gottfried,  Gottfried,  he 
must  see  this.  .  .  . 

She  woke  from  her  dreams.  Freddy  had  slipped  into  the 
house  noiselessly.  He  saw  his  mother's  transported  gaze 
and  halted.     She  now  smiled  at  him  through  her  dim  eyes. 

"Are  you  ill,  Mother?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  and  she  took 
both  his  hands  in  hers  and  pressed  them  to  her  cheek. 

Freddy  was  twelve  years  old.  Outwardly  he  strongly  re- 
sembled Gottfried.  He  had  something  of  the  military  state- 
liness  of  his  Prussian  parent.  Like  Gottfried,  too,  he  was 
quick  to  grasp  a  situation,  and  he  was  thinking.  But  he 
had  not  his  father's  fervor.  He  had  plenty  of  enthusiasm 
but  no  abandon.  He  was  calculating,  cautious  almost  be- 
yond his  years.  Gottfried  noted  this  trait  in  his  son  and 
ascribed  it  to  the  child's  long  association  with  his  invalid 
brother  and  with  his  ailing  mother.  This  he  thought  might 
be  responsible  for  Freddy's  letting  his  enthusiasm  be  guided 
by  reason  and  calculation  first.  The  sight  of  suffering  makes 
one  thoughtful. 

"  All  the  same  the  boy  is  no  thickhead,"  Conrad  would 
say  to  himself  whenever  he  took  stock  of  his  son.  And  he 
was  taking  stock  frequently.  Gottfried  Conrad  was  making 
a  place  for  himself  in  the  socialist  movement  of  the  New 
World.  Would  his  son  follow  in  his  footsteps?  Whenever 
this  thought  occurred  to  Conrad  he  invariably  experienced  a 
yearning  to  get  home  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  wanted  to 
be  near  his  boy.     A  father  should  be  in  closer  association  with 


THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD  69 

his  growing  son  than  he  was  with  his  Lassalle,  he  would 
chide  himself. 

In  such  moments  Conrad  would  recall  with  a  pang  his  own 
mother  and  his  conduct  toward  her.  His  father  had  died 
when  he  was  a  year  old  and  his  mother  remarried  soon  after. 
She  found  a  home  with  her  second  husband.  They  had  eight 
children.  Gottfried  was  treated  by  his  mother  no  differently 
than  the  other  children.  But  he  somehow  never  felt  much 
kinship  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  especially  as  he  grew 
older.  There  was  something  missing  somewhere.  He  real- 
ized it  all  the  more  keenly  as  he  was  growing  up  and  was 
earning  his  own  livelihood.  And  then  he  left  home  and  never 
came  back.  He  had  never  written  to  his  mother,  did  not 
know  whether  she  was  alive  or  not.  That  was  a  horrible  re- 
lation between  parent  and  child,  he  thought.  There  must 
never  arise  such  a  relation  between  himself  and  his  Freddy. 

He  was  anxious  about  his  boy's  studies.  But  he  would 
never  question  Freddy  much  about  his  school  work.  The  sit- 
uation had  greatly  changed  since  the  days  when  Freddy  jQrst 
started  school.  He  was  now  studying  history  and  geography. 
He  was  studying  American  literature.  He  answered  his 
father's  questions  about  everyday  things  in  German  easily 
enough.  But  anything  concerning  his  education  he  would 
have  to  answer  in  English.  German  had  become  the  lan- 
guage of  the  kitchen  to  Fred.  It  was  the  back  door  language 
to  his  little  world.  The  front  door  was  English.  It  was 
the  reverse  with  Conrad.  Only  about  the  simplest  things 
would  he  speak  to  his  son  in  English.  A  real  conversation 
he  could  only  hold  in  German. 

To  question  his  son  about  his  studies  with  any  degree  of 
detail  would  thus  merely  serve  to  emphasize  the  difference 
between  the  German-speaking  father  and  the  English-speak- 
ing son.     Conrad  was  not  eager  to  raise  a  situation  where  this 


70  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

difference  between  himself  and  his  son  would  be  made  to 
stand  out  sharply. 

Even  with  the  care  which  Conrad  was  exercising  not  to 
allow  the  difference  in  language  to  creep  in  between  himself 
and  his  son  nor  to  permit  it  to  color  or  in  any  way  affect  their 
relations,  such  differences  were  constantly  arising. 

Thus  Freddy  once  overheard  his  teachers  discuss  a  graft 
scandal  about  which  the  whole  city  was  talking. 

"  What  can  you  expect,"  said  one  of  the  teachers,  a  New 
England  Yankee  to  whom  Freddy  always  looked  up  as  to  a 
typical  American,  "  what  can  you  expect  in  a  city  ruled  by 
foreigners.  It  is  the  aliens  who  debase  our  government  and 
demoralize  our  public  life.  We  are  ruled  directly  and  in- 
directly by  immigrants  or  sons  of  immigrants.  They  do  not 
speak  our  language;  they  are  foreign  to  our  ideals;  they  are 
strangers  to  our  manners." 

In  the  evening  Freddy  kept  on  plying  his  father  with  ques- 
tions about  the  graft  scandal.  Conrad  had  got  the  facts 
from  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung,  which  told  in  a  few  simple  words 
how  public  funds  had  been  appropriated  by  politicians  under 
various  guises.  He  repeated  the  things  he  had  read  in  the 
paper  to  his  son. 

"Are  the  foreigners  to  blame  for  it?  "  Freddy  asked. 

"  Why  foreigners?  What  makes  you  ask  this  question?  " 
Gottfried  searched  his  son  with  a  look. 

Freddy  narrated  the  conversation  between  his  teachers 
which  laid  the  graft  at  the  door  of  the  alien  population. 

Conrad  did  not  answer  at  once.  It  was  a  delicate  matter. 
Freddy  had  great  respect  for  his  teachers,  especially  the  one 
who  had  attacked  the  foreign  population.  Conrad  contented 
himself  therefore  with  a  brief,  calm  statement. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  all  of  the  men  who  are  involved  in  this 
scandal  are  speaking  English.    Most  of  them,  in  fact,  have 


THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD  71 

American  names.  But  whether  natives  or  immigrants  they 
could  not  get  their  jobs  in  the  City  Hall  if  they  did  not 
speak  English.     They  are  citizens,  Americans." 

The  logic  of  it  struck  the  boy.  His  father  was  right. 
Nevertheless  he  did  not  feel  quite  at  ease.  The  words  his 
teacher  had  spoken  rankled  within  him.  On  a  rainy  day 
soon  after  Freddy  observed  a  woman  teacher  eating  her  lunch 
in  the  office.  She  was  eating  sandwiches  of  white  bread. 
The  entire  sandwich  was  in  every  case  thinner  than  a  single 
slice  of  bread  their  German  neighbors  would  cut.  The  sand- 
wiches were  wrapped  in  a  napkin.  A  small  glass  jar  con- 
tained jam.  Beside  it  lay  a  neat  little  spoon.  He  detected 
a  pickle  near  one  of  the  sandwiches  —  but  what  a  difference 
in  girth  between  the  tiny  sweet  pickle  of  the  American  teacher 
and  the  massive  dill  pickles  which  came  to  their  own  table! 

It  dawned  upon  him  that  that  was  in  part  at  least  what 
the  teacher  meant  when  he  said  that  the  foreigners  were 
strangers  to  American  manners.  He  recalled  the  last  picnic 
to  which  he  and  his  parents  had  gone  that  summer.  It  was 
a  terribly  noisy  affair.  People  carried  lunch  baskets  on  their 
arms  as  if  they  were  going  for  a  journey  half  across  the  con- 
tinent. The  little  park  where  the  picnic  was  held  reeked  of 
beer,  of  strong  smelling  cheese  and  of  blood  pudding.  Noise, 
noise  everywhere.  Noise  and  beer,  noise  and  bologna,  that 
was  the  atmosphere  at  their  meetings,  at  every  festival. 

He  once  blurted  out  as  much  to  his  father.  Gottfried 
looked  at  his  son  long  and  then  answered  slowly: 

"  Yes,  I  guess  we  do  lack  manners."  After  a  while  he 
added,  "  Will  you  come  to  a  meeting  with  me  to-night  ?  I  am 
going  to  speak." 

Gottfried  thought  he  would  try  this  method  of  bringing 
his  son  closer  to  himself. 

Freddy  went  to  the  meeting  with  his  father  and  he  went 


72  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

to  other  meetings  after  that.  Conrad  would  find  a  conven- 
ient nook  for  his  son  on  the  platform  and  the  boy  would  sit 
there  hour  after  hour  watching,  observing,  listening.  In  the 
audience  he  would  recognize  men  and  women  of  their 
acquaintance.  But  from  the  platform  they  looked  so  differ- 
ent. His  father  seemed  superior  to  them  all.  They  listened 
to  him,  drank  in  every  word  he  said,  applauded  him. 

As  Conrad  stood  there  before  the  audience  in  his  Sunday 
clothes,  his  hair  grown  somewhat  long,  hurling  words  of  de- 
fiance, painting  injustice,  arraigning,  pleading,  rousing  the 
people  in  front  of  him,  he  was  impressive.  At  such  mo- 
ments Freddy  forgot  that  his  father  was  speaking  in  German 
—  what  did  language  matter  ?  His  father  was  speaking  the 
truth.  Conrad  was  not  mistaken  in  his  experiment  of  tak- 
ing Freddy  with  him  to  the  halls  and  meeting  places  on  the 
nights  he  spoke.  He  was  winning  the  boy  over  to  his  cause, 
to  his  ideas.  He  was  happy.  He  was  building  great  hopes 
upon  his  son.  A  faint  glimmer  of  the  splendor  of  the  House 
of  Conrad  was  beginning  to  loom  on  the  horizon. 

But  it  did  not  loom  for  long.  A  rift  in  the  relations  be- 
tween father  and  son  occurred  within  the  next  few  days 
which  neither  years  nor  reason  could  make  whole  again. 

It  was  before  election  and  the  district  teemed  with  political 
meetings.  A  meeting  at  Cooper  Union  to  which  the  resi- 
dents of  Kleindeutschland  were  specially  invited  was  to  be 
addressed  by  a  United  States  senator.  Conrad  had  no  inten- 
tion of  going  to  that  meeting  of  a  sworn  enemy  of  the 
working  class,  as  he  called  the  senator,  but  Freddy,  w^ho 
had  read  the  posters  and  had  seen  the  picture  of  the  senator, 
asked  his  father  to  go  with  him  to  Cooper  Union  that  evening. 

He  was  impressed  from  the  start.  The  ushers  impressed 
him  and  the  crowd  impressed  him.  For  the  ushers  at  the 
meeting  were  Americans  and  the  crowd,  in  spite  of  the  special 


THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD  73 

appeal  made  to  the  German  element,  was  American.  Every- 
body spoke  English.  A  polite  cordiality  vibrated  through 
the  hall  instead  of  the  free  and  easy  camaraderie  to  which 
Freddy  was  accustomed  at  German  meetings.  Freddy  and 
his  father  occupied  seats  in  the  second  row. 

The  chairman  made  a  brief  speech  and  then  the  speaker 
of  the  evening  came  forward.  Freddy's  eyes  were  riveted 
upon  the  man.  The  senator  —  Alden  Burr  Willett  —  was 
a  tall  man  with  a  closely  trimmed,  dark  grayish  beard.  His 
frock  coat  and  creased  trousers  hung  on  him  with  a  peculiar 
grace.  But  what  gave  him  an  air  of  distinction  above  all 
else  were  his  shoes.  Soft  shoes  they  were,  wide-toed  and  not 
too  shiny.  Freddy  had  never  seen  such  shoes  before.  They 
were  as  fine  as  the  man ;  and  how  they  clung  to  his  feet !  He 
had  never  seen  shoes  cling  that  way  before.  The  tops,  the 
soles,  the  tips,  responded  like  well  behaved  servants  to  every 
motion  from  the  man's  foot.  The  shoes  were  the  man. 
Freddy  was  positive  they  never  touched  the  sidewalk  on  a 
rainy  day  without  goloshes.  His  father  had  called  the  sena- 
tor a  tool  of  the  capitalists  and  a  deadly  enemy  of  the  plain 
people.  Freddy  sought  confirmation  of  his  father's  words 
in  the  man's  voice.  His  appearance  thus  far  had  been  all 
gentleness. 

The  senator's  voice  harmonized  with  his  appearance.  It 
was  soft.  He  was  not  shouting.  He  was  not  trying  to  cram 
anything  down  the  throats  of  his  hearers.  God  forbid !  He 
was  talking  to  the  audience  gently,  as  one  talks  to  one's 
neighbors  on  the  veranda  of  one's  spacious  and  comfortable 
home.  He  jested,  told  stories  about  the  farmer  and  the  cow 
and  about  Pat  the  Irishman.  The  audience  laughed;  they 
enjoyed  themselves  hugely.     Everybody  was  at  ease. 

And  then  the  senator's  voice  grew  a  trifle  somber.  He  was 
serious  now.     But  still  his  voice  was  not  harsh.     He  spoke 


74  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

like  a  father  giving  friendly  though  earnest  counsel  to  his 
children  who  are  about  to  leave  him.  He  was  enumerating 
the  blessings  which  the  country  was  enjoying,  the  prosperity 
which  was  shared  by  the  whole  American  people,  and  espe- 
cially by  the  workingmen  —  this  was  supposed  to  be  a  meet- 
ing for  workingmen.  To  insure  this  prosperity  it  was  para- 
mount to  elect  the  candidates  of  his  party.  It  was  especially 
the  duty  of  the  working  people  to  vote  for  his  party.  It  was 
to  their  interest,  to  the  interest  of  their  wives  and  children. 

The  senator's  voice  rose  higher  and  higher  and  its  echo 
came  back  from  every  part  of  the  hall.  He  was  a  master 
speaker;  the  senate  knew  him  as  such.  He  was  holding  the 
people  in  the  hall  spellbound.  Freddy  watched  him  breath- 
lessly. And  now  came  the  climax.  The  senator  thrust  his 
chest  forward,  stood  on  the  tips  of  his  toes  —  his  shoes  bent 
with  wonderful  grace  —  and  challenged  the  other  party,  the 
other  candidates,  the  whole  world,  any  one  in  the  audience, 
to  show  him  a  place  where  the  workingman  was  living  in  so 
much  happiness  and  prosperity,  under  such  ideal  and  idyllic 
conditions  of  industry  —  where,  where  outside  this  land  of  the 
free  ?     He  sank  into  his  chair  to  a  storm  of  applause. 

Freddy  looked  up  at  his  father  for  the  first  time  in  half 
an  hour,  and  was  taken  aback  by  the  enraged  look  in  his 
parent's  eyes.  Had  the  senator  been  standing  face  to  face 
with  Conrad,  Freddy  had  no  doubt  but  that  his  father  would 
have  sprung  at  the  man  with  his  fists.  As  it  was,  Gottfried 
sat  erect,  every  nerve  in  his  body  tense  with  expectation. 
Conrad  was  apparently  waiting  for  something.  Now  it 
came. 

The  chairman  of  the  evening,  who  had  been  waiting  for 
the  applause  to  subside,  was  now  calling  upon  the  audience 
to  ask  questions.  The  senator  would  gladly  answer  ques- 
tions.    Conrad  was  on  his  feet  in  a  flash,  waving  his  hand 


THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD  75 

wildly.  He  was  given  the  floor.  It  all  happened  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  before  Freddy  realized  what  was  taking  place, 
he  heard  his  father's  voice  with  his  strong  German  accent 
resound  through  the  hall.     His  father  was  speaking. 

What  about  the  tenements,  Gottfried  was  asking,  where 
men  and  women  worked  from  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  until 
nine  and  ten  o'clock  at  night  for  a  meager  subsistence? 
Was  the  senator  aware  of  these?  He  could  point  out  to  the 
senator  thousands  of  such  tenements,  tens  of  thousands  of 
people  struggling,  slaving,  dying  in  them.  And  about  the 
shirtwaist  strikers  —  was  the  senator  aware  of  them  ?  Ten 
thousand  women  and  girls  had  been  on  strike  for  five  weeks 
now  against  a  system  of  inhuman  sweating  and  exploitation. 
Why  did  not  the  senator  speak  of  that?  That  too  was  tak- 
ing place  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  Thus  far  Conrad's 
words  were  intelligible  in  spite  of  the  accent  with  which  they 
were  spoken.  But  here  excitement  got  the  best  of  him.  He 
began  to  pour  out  a  flood  of  words,  facts,  statistics  about 
sweatshops  and  poverty  in  New  York,  facts  and  statistics 
which  he  had  at  his  fingers'  ends,  which  none  of  them 
could  dispute.  And  no  one  did  dispute  them.  For  only  a 
few  men  in  the  audience  now  understood  him.  The  rest 
could  not  make  out  a  word  he  was  saying.  Freddy  noticed 
the  smiles  appearing  on  the  faces  of  men  all  about  them. 
His  face  burned  with  shame.  If  they  were  only  outside  — 
if  he  could  only  run  away.  In  the  meantime,  a  murmur  was 
arising,  a  murmur  of  anger. 

"Aw,  sit  down!"  some  one  shouted.  "Nobody  under- 
stands a  word  you  are  saying." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down!  "  came  from  every  part  of  the  hall. 

"  Throw  him  out,  that  Dutchman!  " 

"  We  don't  speak  that  language  here  —  this  is  the  United 
States!  " 


76  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

*'  Sit  down;  you  are  creating  a  disturbance."  An  usher 
was  at  his  side. 

Conrad,  his  face  red  and  bewildered,  was  trying  to  explain, 
but  no  one  would  listen  to  him. 

"Sit  down,"  the  usher  was  saying:  "sit  down  or  I  will 
throw  you  out." 

The  senator  meantime  rose,  apparently  to  restore  order. 
But  he  was  not  exerting  himself  too  much.  He  would  not 
deprive  the  audience  of  a  chance  to  have  its  fun.  Besides, 
these  socialists  were  getting  troublesome.  He  saw  at  once  that 
the  man  before  him  was  a  socialist.  It  wouldn't  do  any  harm 
to  give  that  fellow  there  a  lesson.  It  was  some  time  before 
the  senator  spoke  up. 

"  Gentlemen,"  Senator  Willett  was  saying,  his  soft  shoes 
beating  tune  to  the  velvet  of  his  voice,  *'  gentlemen,  this  man 
has  a  perfect  right  to  ask  questions."  And  he  proceeded  to 
"  answer  "  Conrad.  In  spite  of  the  accent  with  which  Gott- 
fried spoke,  the  senator  readily  caught  the  drift  of  his  ques- 
tions. 

"  This  gentleman,"  he  said  suavely,  as  he  swept  his  eyes 
over  the  place  where  Conrad  was  supposed  to  be  sitting, 
"  this  gentleman  is  a  socialist.  Any  one  can  see  that." 
There  was  a  wink  in  the  speaker's  eyes  as  he  said  this.  The 
audience  caught  it  and  a  ripple  of  laughter  ran  through  the 
hall.  The  senator  went  on  with  apparent  seriousness,  but 
behind  this  seriousness  there  lurked  a  bantering  tone  that  no 
one  could  mistake.  Senator  Willett  was  now  demolishing  the 
socialist  theory  with  great  ease.  He  knew  all  about  these 
visionaries.  Men  will  run  off  sometimes;  it  takes  all  sorts  of 
people  to  make  a  world.  Too  bad,  however,  that  this  should 
happen  in  a  country  whose  opportunities  are  unlimited,  whose 
very  name  spells  hope  and  freedom.  Has  he  answered  the 
speaker's  questions? 


THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD  77 

Senator  Willett  looked  in  the  direction  of  Conrad.  Of 
course  he  had  not  even  come  anywhere  near  the  questions 
about  the  tenements  and  sweating  that  Conrad  had  raised. 
His  seeming  earnestness  was  the  acme  of  sarcasm.  Gott- 
fried was  too  sick  of  the  whole  thing  to  reply.  He  detested 
the  man  and  his  cleverness. 

"  I  assume,"  said  the  speaker,  "  that  the  gentleman's  ques- 
tions have  been  answered  satisfactorily."  The  meeting  was 
closed. 

Conrad's  neighbors  poured  out  their  contempt  for  him  in 
their  looks.  He  edged  his  way  through  the  crowd.  Freddy, 
who  followed  his  father  without  looking  at  any  one,  heard 
some  one  remark:  "There  is  that  Dutchman!  "  The  rest 
was  drowned  in  a  guffaw  of  laughter. 

They  walked  in  silence.  Neither  of  them  could  bring  him- 
self to  speak.  To  Freddy  only  one  thing  stood  out  clear. 
His  father  was  right,  but  he  was  made  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  audience  because  he  could  not  speak  English,  because 
he  was  a  foreigner.  Another  man  in  his  place,  he  reasoned 
feverishly,  a  man  speaking  English,  a  man  who  was  not  a 
foreigner,  could  have  made  his  argument  stand  out  formid- 
ably. The  senator  would  have  had  difficulty  in  answering 
it.  Yes,  he  would.  The  more  Freddy  recalled  the  senator 
with  his  soft,  yielding  shoes,  the  more  convinced  he  was  that 
the  senator  knew  nothing  about  the  problems  of  the  men  and 
women  who  worked  for  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  day,  prob- 
lems with  which  he,  Freddy,  was  already  familiar.  Yes,  the 
whole  thing  resolved  itself  to  the  matter  of  not  being  a  for- 
eigner, of  speaking  like  an  American. 

While  Freddy  was  revolving  these  thoughts  in  his  mind, 
Conrad's  heated  feelings  were  giving  way  to  thoughtfulness. 
He  was  no  longer  angry  with  the  senator  and  with  the  Ameri- 
can audience  which  refused  to  listen  to  the  truth.     The  insult 


78  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

meant  nothing  to  him  now.  It  was  war  on  capitalism  they, 
the  socialists,  would  make.  The  senator  was  one  of  the  pil- 
lars of  the  capitalist  system.  What  else  but  insult  could  a 
socialist  expect  from  a  capitalist  senator  and  a  capitalist- 
minded  audience?     But  he  was  worried  about  his  son. 

The  events  of  the  evening  had  become  but  a  symbol  of  a 
greater  struggle  to  come.  Senator  Willett,  glib-tongued,  slick- 
mannered,  speaking  artfully  but  without  the  least  sincerity, 
was  the  type  of  the  great  run  of  American  politicians.  The 
audience  of  the  evening,  too  indolent  for  earnest  thought, 
feeding  on  flattery,  was  the  type  of  the  great  run  of  Ameri- 
cans. They  were  America.  And  this  America  was  seeking 
his  son's  soul.  There  was  danger  ahead  —  danger  for  the 
House  of  Conrad. 

"  Hypocrites,"  Conrad  spat  to  one  side,  "  hypocrites,  that 
is  what  they  are.  They  make  a  pious  face  about  liberty  and 
equality  while  they  are  forging  an  iron  ring  of  capitalism 
about  the  public.  They  prate  about  the  welfare  of  the  masses 
—  where  is  this  welfare?  Ten  thousand  girls  who  have  been 
getting  starvation  wages  for  years  are  on  strike  for  an  in- 
crease in  wages  of  twenty-five  cents  a  day,  an  increase  of 
about  a  quarter  of  a  cent  or  less  on  a  shirt.  They  need  this 
extra  quarter  a  day  for  bread,  for  clothes,  for  a  little  more 
light  in  their  homes.  Are  these  benevolent  Americans  -giv- 
ing the  girls  the  increase  ?  No.  *  Take  it  or  go,'  that  is 
their  attitude.  *  We  can  get  plenty  of  slaves  to  fill  your 
places.' 

"  Hypocrites,"  Conrad  lowered  his  voice  as  if  he  wer« 
speaking  to  himself,  but  Freddy  caught  his  father's  every 
word.  *'  They  tell  you  it  is  *  Ladies  first '  in  this  country. 
They  speak  of  the  chivalry  of  American  men.  Nice  chivalry 
this  is.     '  Ladies  first,'  yes,  to  the  river  —  or  the  brothel.  " 

They   reached   the   house.     Conrad   paused   a   moment. 


THE  RETURN  OF  CONRAD  79 

Then,  as  if  in  response  to  a  remark  which  his  son  once  made, 
and  which  he  never  quite  forgot,  he  said : 

"  Yes,  they  have  nice  manners,  but  where  is  the  heart?  " 

It  was  late  and  Anna  was  sleeping.  They  were  glad,  for 
it  was  an  excuse  for  silence.  Freddy  went  to  bed  and  was 
soon  asleep;  the  excitement  of  the  evening  had  wearied  him. 
But  Conrad  tossed,  wakeful,  for  a  long  time. 

When  Freddy  opened  his  eyes  the  following  morning,  he 
was  surprised  to  see  his  mother  go  about  in  the  kitchen  in  her 
wonted  manner.  He  had  been  dreaming  that  he  was  a  man 
and  was  working.  His  disappointment  at  waking  up  to 
be  a  boy  again,  a  boy  not  yet  thirteen,  was  keen.  In 
school  that  day  he  could  not  fix  his  mind  upon  his  work. 
At  first  he  seemed  to  be  listening  to  a  speech,  in  English, 
which  kept  resounding  through  his  ears.  When  the  teacher 
woke  him  out  of  his  dreams,  he  realized  that  it  was  he  him- 
self that  was  making  the  speech,  and  abruptly  the  smoothly 
flowing  English  sentences  were  cut  off. 

Then  he  looked  about  the  room,  and  although  school  had 
been  on  for  nearly  six  weeks,  he  realized  for  the  first  time 
that  he  missed  two  of  his  friends,  boys  of  his  own  age.  They 
had  gone  to  work.  He  was  eager  to  get  home  to  speak  to 
his  mother  about  going  to  work  too.  And  when  he  did  so 
Anna  looked  at  him  speechlessly.  She  was  utterly  unable  to 
respond  to  his  questions.  When  she  was  alone  she  cried. 
After  supper  when  the  boy  went  downstairs  she  told  her  hus- 
band about  it  and  Conrad,  too,  felt  shaken  up  by  the  thought. 
He  had  intended  to  go  over  to  the  hall  that  evening,  but 
changed  his  mind  and  stayed  home.  He  was  waiting  for 
Freddy  to  come  back,  not  to  talk  to  him,  but  just  to  see  him. 
He  would  take  a  good  look  at  his  son  who  was  thinking  of 
going  to  work. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DESIRES 

IN  the  bakeshop  of  Hermann  Keller  the  employees  seldom 
reckoned  time  by  the  clock.  When  the  last  of  three  hun- 
dred loaves  of  rye  bread  had  been  despatched  into  the  oven 
they  knew  it  was  midnight  and  therefore  mealtime.  Each 
rushed  to  the  rear  of  the  shop  to  grab  his  lunch  which  lay 
next  to  his  street  clothes.  Each  man,  too,  would  rinse  his 
tin  pail  and  hand  it  to  the  "  helper  "  without  a  word.  The 
*'  helper  "  knew  the  rest. 

On  this  particular  May  night  the  helper  was  not  there  to 
take  the  pails  from  the  workmen.  The  helper  was  a  new 
boy.  He  had  come  to  work  that  evening  and  was  not  yet 
familiar  with  the  routine  of  his  job.  He  had  washed  and 
scrubbed  the  pans  as  he  was  told.  He  had  watched  one  of 
the  men  cook  the  yeast  so  as  to  be  able  to  do  it  himself  the 
next  day.  But  he  was  not  yet  aware  of  the  midnight  meal 
and  of  the  beer. 

"  Hier,  Junge!  "  the  shop  foreman,  or  "  first  hand,"  called, 
and  a  blond  lad  of  thirteen,  who  had  been  leaning  against  a 
large  sack  of  flour,  came  up. 

"  Hier,"  said  the  foreman,  "  take  these  pails  and  run  across 
the  street  to  Schultz's  —  the  saloon  —  and  have  them  filled. 
It  is  all  right  about  paying.  Just  tell  him  you  are  from  Kel- 
ler's and  that  you  are  the  new  boy." 

While  waiting  for  the  beer  they  unwrapped  their  lunch  and 
laid  it  on  the  benches.  One  or  two  nibbled  at  the  bulky 
sandwiches;  the  rest  sat  waiting  for  the  boy.    When  the 

80 


DESIRES  81 

helper  had  returned  each  grabbed  his  pail  from  him  and 
began  to  drink  the  cold  beverage  avidly.  Working  in  front 
of  a  hot  oven  half  the  night  makes  for  thirst. 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  complete  silence  in  the  room; 
the  men  were  munching  their  sandwiches  without  a  word. 
When  the  first  strong  craving  for  food  had  been  allayed,  con- 
versation was  in  order.  It  began  with  the  helper.  The  lad 
was  sitting  on  one  of  the  tubs,  eating  a  cold  beef  sandwich  and 
shyly  looking  away  from  the  rest  of  the  workmen,  when  the 
foreman  called  him. 

"  There  is  a  glass,"  the  foreman  pointed  to  the  sink  and  the 
lad  brought  it  on  the  jump.  The  foreman  poured  a  glassful 
of  beer  from  his  own  pail  and  gave  it  to  the  boy. 

"  There,  drink  it,"  he  said.  "  If  you  want  to  be  a  good 
baker  you  got  to  drink.  You'll  sweat  it  out  soon  enough  by 
the  fire." 

The  foreman  then  turned  to  one  of  the  younger  men,  the 
words  rolling  from  under  his  long  mustache  jovially:  "  You 
are  hardly  eating  to-night,  Freddy,"  he  said.  "  What's  the 
matter?     Thinking  of  your  girl,  eh ?  " 

"  Freddy  is  lovesick,"  another  of  the  workmen  bantered. 
A  third  added  with  a  sly  wink,  "  Yes,  he's  been  chasing 
around  with  the  girls  something  fierce  lately." 

"  Anybody  else  got  anything  to  say?  "  the  youth  who  was 
thus  made  game  of  responded  calmly  and  in  clear,  sharp  Eng- 
lish, in  contradistinction  to  the  German  in  which  the  others 
had  dressed  their  remarks.  He  was  looking  with  an  air  of 
expectancy  at  two  workmen,  likewise  older  than  himself,  who 
had  laughed  at  the  jests  of  the  others,  but  had  not  themselves 
spoken.  Did  they  too  have  any  jests  at  his  expense?  He 
was  waiting. 

But  they  had  none.  The  clear,  incisive  English  in  which 
he  had  spoken  had  the  effect  of  dampening  the  mirth  of  the 


82  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

men.  The  English  language  carried  with  it  a  weight  and 
authority  in  the  cellar  bakeshop  to  which  even  the  "  first 
hand  "  yielded.  In  spite  of  his  bantering  the  foreman  at 
all  times  felt  a  certain  respect  for  the  youth  who  was  the  only 
American  in  the  shop;  who  was  the  only  baker  in  Klein- 
deutschland  to  whom  English  was  the  mother  tongue.  The 
bantering  ceased;  the  bakers  bit  into  their  sandwiches  more 
vigorously.  Left  alone,  Fred  returned  to  the  reminiscences 
which  the  sight  of  the  new  helper,  standing  in  one  corner  of 
the  bakeshop  with  a  lone,  forlorn  look,  had  stirred  within 
him. 

Five  years  had  passed  since  that  morning  when  the  not  yet 
thirteen-year-old  Freddy  woke  with  the  definite  desire  to  go 
to  work.  His  parents  insisted  that  he  give  up  all  thought 
of  work  until  he  had  graduated  from  the  public  school.  This 
he  did,  and  then  he  loafed  the  whole  summer,  loafed  trying 
to  think  what  he  would  like  to  do,  what  occupation  he  would 
rather  choose.  His  father  did  not  give  him  much  help  in  the 
matter.  Conrad  wanted  his  son  to  follow  his  own  inclina- 
tions. And  Fred  followed  not  so  much  his  inclination  as  a 
certain  vision  which  had  taken  hold  of  his  boyish  brain,  an 
illusion,  as  he  now  knew  it  to  be,  and  hired  out  as  a  baker's 
apprentice. 

That  his  son's  inclinations  were  in  the  direction  of  being  a 
workingman  pleased  Conrad.  It  was  in  accord  with  his 
plans  for  his  boy,  for  his  Lassalle.  Not  that  he  did  not  wish 
his  son  to  be  an  educated  man!  On  the  contrary.  They, 
the  socialists,  were  for  an  education  first  to  last,  but  for  an 
education  differently  obtained  and  used  differently.  At  pres- 
ent, Conrad  observed,  education  was  most  often  used  by  the 
children  of  the  poor,  not  for  the  benefit  of  their  oppressed  and 
exploited  brethren,  not  as  a  lever  with  which  to  lift  up  their 
kind  to  a  higher  level  of  prosperity  and  happiness,  but  as 


DESIRES  83 

a  stepladder  for  their  own  entry  into  the  "  parasitic  class." 
That  was  the  philosophy  of  the  schools,  that  was  the  spirit 
which  the  child  imbibed  there  —  to  improve  his  own  condi- 
tion and  forget  the  rest,  forget  or  even  wink  his  eye  at  the 
existence  of  wrong  and  injustice,  so  long  as  he  managed  to 
escape  them. 

Under  other  circumstances,  Conrad  often  thought  to  him- 
self, under  another  regime,  he  would  have  sent  his  boy  to 
high  school  and  to  college.  But  not  now,  not  under  the  capi- 
talist system  under  which  they  lived.  To  send  the  boy  to 
high  school  and  to  college  now  could  have  but  one  result  I  He 
would  be  lost  to  the  working  class.  No,  Fred  must  seek  to 
complete  his  education  outside  the  school  buildings  and  in- 
fluences.    His  son  should  stand  with  the  proletariat! 

The  circle  from  which  Fred  might  choose  an  occupation  was 
a  narrow  one.  The  Germans  in  New  York  followed  four 
principal  trades  at  the  time.  They  were  cigarmakers,  brew- 
ery workers,  carpenters  and  bakers.  In  these  trades  the  work- 
ers were  strongly  organized;  in  others  they  were  not.  Fred 
no  more  than  his  father  would  consider  entering  a  trade  where 
the  men  were  unorganized.  It  was  about  these  four  trades 
therefore  that  his  thoughts  were  revolving  during  the  summer 
months  when  he  was  taking  what  was  to  prove  his  last  long 
vacation. 

As  these  last  free  days  of  childhood  were  drawing  to  a  close 
and  the  first  breath  of  autumn  had  swept  over  the  tene- 
ments, Fred  was  seized  with  a  sudden  and  pathetic  longing  for 
the  free  days  and  especially  the  free  afternoons  which  were 
about  to  come  to  an  end  —  forever.  Along  with  his  craving 
to  be  a  workman,  to  be  independent,  to  be  considered  a 
man,  there  went  the  thought  that  this  meant  renouncing  for- 
ever his  days,  his  afternoons,  sacrificing  one  half  of  his  life, 
the  best  half.    He  would  now  watch  the  men  and  boys  in  the 


84  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

district  as  they  returned  from  work  at  seven  o'clock  every  eve- 
ning. He  knew  that  they  had  been  away  from  home  since  six 
in  the  morning  and  his  heart  sank  within  him.  To  go  to 
work  meant  to  say  good-by  to  daylight  in  the  open  forever. 
He  would  not  even  have  the  three  hours  in  the  afternoon  which 
he  had  while  he  went  to  school.  The  shop  employment,  which 
he  had  looked  up  to  as  a  source  of  independence,  exacted  a 
severe  toll  for  this  independence.  It  took  one's  days  from 
one. 

As  he  was  brooding  over  these  things  gloomily  one  day,  he 
observed  Anton  Schwabiger,  a  neighbor  of  theirs,  going  over 
to  the  saloon  with  a  pitcher.  In  a  few  minutes  the  neighbor 
was  returning,  his  pitcher  filled.  And  then  for  the  next 
quarter  of  an  hour  Freddy  saw  Schwabiger  sitting  at  the  table 
near  the  window,  drinking  down  glass  after  glass  of  the  beer 
with  evident  relish. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  —  what  was  Schwab- 
iger doing  home  at  this  time  ?  Schwabiger's  son  had  been  his 
playmate  for  some  time.  The  bits  of  information  on  his  do- 
mestic affairs  which  the  boy  occasionally  volunteered  now 
pieced  themselves  together  with  clearness  and  coherence. 
Everything  was  explained;  the  conclusions  were  drawn;  his 
own  decision  made. 

Schwabiger  was  a  baker;  he  worked  nights.  Freddy  saw 
him  leave  his  house  about  six  o'clock  every  evening.  He  had 
often  seen  Schwabiger's  boy  enter  the  house  on  tiptoe  in  the 
daytime  because  his  father  was  sleeping.  Schwabiger  slept 
until  about  half-past  two  in  the  afternoon  and  then  he  sat 
around  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Freddy's  imagination  fevered  at  the  discovery.  That 
solved  his  problem  for  him.  He  would  be  a  baker  and  would 
steal  a  march  on  Father  Time.  He  would  have  the  whole 
afternoon  to  himself.     He  could  do  with  six  hours'  sleep 


DESIRES  85 

easily.  He  would  come  home  at  six  in  the  morning,  eat  his 
breakfast  and  go  to  sleep.  He  would  rise  at  one  or  half-past 
and  then  would  have  until  six  o'clock  to  himself. 

When  Freddy  told  his  father  that  he  wanted  to  be  a  baker, 
he  hid  from  him  the  reason  for  choosing  this  trade.  He  did 
not  know  exactly  why,  but  he  had  a  vague  fear  that  his 
parent  might  somehow  frustrate  his  plans.  His  father  was 
penetrating. 

Gottfried  was  caught  off  guard.  The  bakers  had  been 
much  in  the  limelight  then.  They  had  just  won  a  prolonged 
strike.  As  was  natural,  the  strike  was  led  by  the  Arbeiter 
Zeitung,  and  the  victory  for  the  men  was  a  triumph  for  the 
paper  and  for  the  socialist  cause  it  championed.  Besides,  the 
bakers  had  won  real  concessions.  Their  hours  were  short- 
ened; new  sanitary  regulations  were  adopted.  One  of  these 
was  the  abolition  of  the  boarding  system.  The  bakery  work- 
ers were  no  longer  to  be  compelled  to  board  with  the  boss  and 
sleep  in  the  rear  of  the  moist,  unsanitary  cellar  bakeshops. 
The  union  of  the  men  had  emerged  from  the  strike  stronger 
than  ever. 

It  was  of  these  things  Conrad  was  thinking  when  his  boy 
told  him  that  he  wanted  to  be  a  baker.  His  son,  he  thought, 
was  inspired  by  the  victory  of  the  bakers,  by  their  strong 
union,  and  that  was  the  reason  he  wanted  to  enter  the  bakers' 
trade.  From  the  standpoint  of  his,  Conrad's,  plans  for  his 
son,  the  bakery  trade  would  not  be  a  bad  one  for  his  boy  to 
enter.  The  baker's  organization  was  made  up  largely  of 
socialists.  The  boy  would  drink  in  the  spirit  of  revolt  with 
his  milk,  so  to  speak.  What  worried  Gottfried  was  the  fact 
that  his  son  would  be  away  from  home  evenings.  He  would 
see  him  so  seldom,  only  a  few  minutes  in  the  morning  before 
he  left  for  work.  Anna  too  was  worried  over  it.  But  she 
was  now  learning  to  submit  to  the  will  of  her  son,  as  she  had 


86  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

once  learned  to  submit  to  the  will  of  her  husband.  And 
Freddy  was  determined  to  be  a  baker.  His  mind  was  set  on 
it.  They  came  to  wonder  a  little  why  he  was  so  enthusiastic 
over  the  prospect  of  being  a  baker.  But  Fred  kept  his  dream 
of  saving  his  afternoons  secret.  And  one  day  soon  after- 
ward his  fate  was  sealed  with  his  entry  as  a  helper  in  the 
bakeshop  of  Hermann  Keller. 

The  murky  light  of  the  cellar  deepened  the  shadows  in 
Freddy's  face  as  he  recalled  the  events  of  the  past  three  and 
a  half  years.  He  had  long  ago  become  accustomed  to  the  odor 
of  the  place  —  had  become  hardened  against  it.  But  as  he 
watched  the  nostrils  of  the  thirteen-year-old  boy,  who  was  now- 
being  broken  in  as  a  helper,  quiver  and  tug  and  struggle  as  if 
revolting  against  the  steady  quaffing  in  of  the  sour  fumes  of 
the  bakeshop,  the  nauseating  smell  of  the  place  revolted  him 
too  as  on  the  night  he  entered  the  cellar  for  the  first  time. 

The  appearance  of  the  shop  had  not  changed  in  the  three 
and  a  half  years.  Two  big  ovens,  built  into  the  wall, 
faced  each  other.  Between  these  were  the  benches,  boxes, 
pans  and  dough  receptacles  of  all  sorts,  which  contained,  in 
various  stages,  the  bread,  rolls  and  cakes  that  were  fed  nightly 
to  these  ever  hungry  ovens.  Along  one  of  the  walls,  piled  to 
the  ceiling,  were  sacks  of  flour.  The  other  wall  was  lined 
with  barrels  and  kegs  of  various  sizes.  To  one  side  stood 
jars  of  syrups  and  jellies  which  went  into  the  making  of  vari- 
ous rolls  and  other  dainties  —  food  and  colic  for  the  children 
of  the  district.  Paper  bags  of  sugar,  raisins,  cinnamon,  lay 
scattered  on  all  sides.  A  big  bowl  of  cheese  mixed  with  eggs 
that  was  to  go  into  the  making  of  cheese  cake  stood  fermenting 
on  a  shelf.  A  stale,  rat-like  smell  and  the  sweat  from  the 
half-naked  men  cemented  all  of  these  odors  together. 

Fred  forgot  the  odors  and  was  harking  back  in  his  memory 
to  the  days  when  he  saw  the  life  of  a  baker  tinted  with  a 


DESIRES  87 

glow  of  romance  because,  as  he  thought,  it  offered  a  chance 
to  save  the  afternoons.  Foolish  child  that  he  was!  He 
thought  of  the  afternoons  and  forgot  the  evenings.  He  would 
have  given  much  now  to  have  entered  three  and  a  half  years 
back  an  occupation  which  would  have  left  his  evenings  free. 
Evenings!  Evenings!  Evenings  were  life.  Evenings  were 
soft  whispers.  Evenings  were  tender  looks.  Evenings 
were  girls  in  fresh  linen  dresses.  Evenings  were  trim  waists. 
Evenings  were  hands  that  caressed,  eyes  that  languished. 
Evenings  were  the  wine  of  life  —  the  wine  he  had  never 
tasted.     His  life  had  been  dry  and  barren. 

He  had  finished  eating.  Throwing  a  coat  over  his  bared 
shoulders  he  walked  up  eight  stairs  to  the  sidewalk. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night.  The  air  was  clear  and  balmy. 
The  blue,  starry  sky  for  a  moment  caused  Fred  to  forget  the 
big  tenements  and  the  narrow  street,  and  to  think  of  green 
fields  and  trees  and  fresh  water  running,  rushing  over  shiny 
pebbles.     He  had  read  of  such  a  scene  in  a  book  once. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  sight  of  a  couple  coming.  He 
looked  at  them  intently.  The  woman  was  dressed  in  white. 
Her  laughter  suddenly  rang  out  in  the  night  like  a  silver  bell. 
It  was  a  boy  and  girl  —  coming  home  so  late.  They  must 
have  been  out  to  a  park,  been  together  all  evening.  The 
couple  passed  on  into  the  next  block.  Freddy  was  peering 
wistfully  after  them. 

Another  couple  came.  They  were  drunk  and  were  hold- 
ing each  other,  clinging  to  one  another  as  they  wabbled  along. 
There  was  a  saloon  around  the  corner  and  they  had  evidently 
just  emerged  from  it.  Freddy  knew  of  the  saloon.  Several 
of  his  boy  acquaintances  frequently  went  there.  The  man 
and  woman  were  now  directly  across  the  street  from  the  bake- 
shop.  They  stood  still  and  were  caressing  each  other.  The 
woman^s  hair  was  falling  over  her  flushed  face.     She  held 


88  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

her  hat  in  her  hand.  She  was  young,  under  thirty,  and 
buxom.     Her  companion  clung  to  her  plump  body. 

The  drunken  pair  started  off.  Fred  turned  sharply  to  go 
down  into  the  basement  and  bumped  into  one  of  his  shop- 
mates  who,  like  himself,  had  been  watching  the  drunken 
couple  speechlessly.     Fred  had  not  heard  the  man  come  up. 

The  midnight  lunch  hour  was  over  and  Fred  Conrad  was 
standing  near  his  bench  rolling  the  pieces  of  dough  mechan- 
ically. Before  his  eyes  still  lingered  the  picture  of  the  first 
couple,  the  boy  and  girl  who  were  coming  home  one  o'clock 
at  night,  who  had  been  by  themselves  all  evening.  Again  and 
again  he  heard  the  girl's  laughter.  It  was  an  innocent  laugh- 
ter, a  laughter  that  told  of  love  and  dreams  and  joy.  These 
things  had  not  yet  come  into  his  life.  And  the  other,  the 
drunken  couple  —  He  turned  his  thoughts  from  them  with 
a  feeling  of  revulsion. 

Fred  Conrad  was  a  full-fledged  baker  by  this  time.  He 
was  "  second  hand  "  now  and  was  earning  ten  and  twelve 
dollars  a  week.  But  while  he  was  earning  a  man's  wages,  he 
was  a  curious  mixture  of  man  and  child  in  his  relations  to 
his  parents  and  to  the  world.  He  knew  many  things  —  heard 
them  from  the  men  in  the  shop.  But  he  shrank  from  them 
with  an  unaccountable  loathing.  His  boy  friends  had  often 
when  he  had  a  night  off,  asked  him  to  go  out  with  them. 
They  knew  certain  saloons,  certain  Weinstubes.  And  they 
kept  running  from  one  to  another  of  these.  They  were  spend-' 
ing  their  evenings  there.  Often  they  would  point  out  girls 
to  him  on  the  street,  girls  they  knew  and  who,  they  said,  were 
of  "  that  kind."  They  would  offer  to  introduce  him.  But  he 
would  decline  with  a  shrug  of  alarm.  His  friends  at  first 
teased  him  about  his  shyness,  and  made  jokes  about  it.  Later 
they  left  him  alone.  They  ceased  calling  him.  He  was  sel- 
dom seen  in  company.     His  aloofness,  especially  from  girls 


DESIRES  89 

and  women,  made  Fred  the  object  of  an  occasional  pun  even 
among  his  shopmates.  During  the  lunch  hour  they  frequently 
bantered  him  about  his  puritanic  tendencies  until  rudely  si- 
lenced by  him, 

Fred,  on  the  other  hand,  was  puzzled  by  the  attitude  of 
these  boys  and  of  his  shopmates  toward  women.  He  could 
not  reconcile  himself  to  it.  Nearly  all  of  them  thought  of 
women  in  only  one  sense.  They  spoke  of  them  disrespect- 
fully; often  appraised  women  as  one  does  animals,  and  used 
vile  epithets  apparently  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  speaking 
these  words. 

He  thought  of  his  mother.  He  hoped  she  would  never 
suspect  that  he  had  to  listen  to  such  talk.  He  could  not  look 
her  in  the  face  if  she  were  suspecting  it. 

At  the  thought  of  his  mother  an  atmosphere  of  grayness 
would  settle  over  him.  Mrs.  Conrad  was  never  violently 
ill  these  days,  but  she  was  never  well.  Her  haggard  fea- 
tures occasionally  inspired  both  Conrad  and  Freddy  with  un- 
easiness. When  he  left  for  the  bakeshop  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  evening  he  would  often  cast  back  at  his  mother  a  tender, 
misty  gaze.  He  would  hope  fervently  that  he  would  find  her 
well  when  he  came  home  from  work  in  the  morning.  His 
mother's  health  was  the  pivot  about  which  his  thoughts,  his 
existence  revolved. 

It  was  Fred's  turn  to  go  to  the  oven.  This  job  always  re- 
quired attention.  A  moment's  neglect  and  a  pan  of  rolls 
was  burned.  He  worked  away  briskly  with  the  peel,  shoving 
pans  into  the  oven,  changing  their  position  there,  bringing 
them  nearer  the  fire  or  moving  them  farther  away.  There 
was  no  time  to  think  when  one  was  at  the  oven.  Time  went 
fast,  too.  Before  one  realized,  it  was  four  o'clock.  At  that 
hour  the  boss  came  down  into  the  shop.  Hermann  Keller 
always  attended  in  person  to  the  delivery  end  of  the  business. 


90  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

With  the  entry  of  the  boss  there  came  an  hour  of  intense 
vigorous  work  for  everybody,  including  the  new  helper.  The 
wagons  were  loaded  in  haste  with  the  heaping  baskets  of  fresh 
rolls  and  bread,  and  while  these  were  cleared  away,  the  men 
were  rounding  out  their  night's  work  with  the  completion  of 
the  day's  order  of  cakes  and  pies.  It  was  half-past  five 
o'clock  when  the  last  delivery  wagon  rolled  away  and  all  the 
bakers  but  one  were  now  free  to  take  a  deep  breath,  to  wash 
up  and  go  home. 

Fred  Conrad  traversed  the  length  of  the  basement  and 
through  the  rear  door  emerged  into  the  yard.  There  was 
grass  in  the  yard  and  it  was  bathed  in  morning  dew.  The 
air  was  cool  now  and  tingled  the  blood.  The  helper  brought 
him  his  pail  of  beer  out  there.  Fred  drained  nearly  half  the 
can  before  his  thirst,  which  had  been  accumulating  in  front 
of  the  oven,  was  slaked.  Then,  placing  the  can  on  a  barrel, 
he  leaned  against  the  wall  to  rest  himself. 

The  neighborhood  was  up.  Men,  women  and  children  were 
getting  ready  for  the  day's  call.  Beds  were  being  folded, 
tables  set,  water  splashed.  Here  a  man  was  clamoring  for 
soap.  There  a  girl  and  a  boy,  evidently  sister  and 
brother,  were  quarreling  over  a  towel.  The  aroma  of  coffee 
was  rising  on  all  sides. 

Fred  was  listening  lazily  to  these  morning  noises,  he  was 
accustomed  to  them.  They  were  an  everyday  occurrence. 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  pail  with  the  cooling  drink. 
His  outstretched  hand,  however,  came  back  empty  and  fell 
limp  by  his  side. 

His  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  figure  of  a  girl  who  was 
washing  on  the  rear  porch  of  the  opposite  tenement.  He  had 
never  seen  the  girl  there  before.  He  recalled  now  that  people 
had  moved  from  the  flat  a  few  days  previous.  The  girl  must 
have  just  moved  in.     She  was  there  for  the  first  time.     He 


DESIRES  91 

had  not  yet  seen  her  face.  She  was  standing  sideways,  wash- 
ing in  a  bowl  of  water.  Every  time  her  face  and  neck  came 
in  contact  with  the  cold  water  her  entire  body  responded  with 
a  joyous  quiver,  which  the  frail,  tightly  wrapped  kimono 
would  outline  distinctly.  Now  the  water  trickled  down  the 
girl's  bosom.  She  cried  out  gleefully  and  looked  up  as  if 
searching  for  some  one  to  share  the  joy  of  the  prank  with  her. 
Her  eyes  met  those  of  Fred. 

She  was  his  own  age,  not  over  seventeen  and  a  half  or 
eighteen.  Her  face  was  pretty  and  mischievous.  He  stood  gaz- 
ing at  her.  The  girl  gave  him  a  prolonged  look  as  if  trying 
to  make  out  just  what  he  was  like.  In  his  overalls,  his  hands 
and  face  covered  with  flour,  he  was  not  easy  to  make  out. 
Then  she  drew  the  kimono  tighter  about  her  and  continued 
her  cleansing  operations.  The  lines  of  her  body  stood  out 
even  more  sharply.  Fred  had  seen  a  picture  of  a  mermaid  in 
one  of  his  school  books.  The  girl  reminded  him  of  that 
picture  —  and  of  the  sea,  the  cold  sea. 

He  was  chilled  and  tired ;  he  had  gone  out  without  throw- 
ing anything  over  his  shoulders.  He  picked  up  the  pail,  but 
the  beer  made  no  appeal  to  him  now. 

In  the  three  and  a  half  years  which  he  had  been  working 
as  a  baker  his  father  never  left  the  house  in  the  morning  be- 
fore Fred  came  home.  Gottfried  had  on  several  occasions 
been  late  to  his  work,  but  he  would  not  miss  seeing  his  son 
before  the  latter  went  off  to  sleep  after  his  night's  work  in 
the  bakeshop. 

The  weary  look  in  Fred's  eyes  did  not  escape  his  father 
that  morning.  Anna,  too,  was  at  his  side  with  anxious  ques- 
tions. Was  he  ill?  What  had  happened  to  him?  Was 
there  anything  he  wanted  —  anything  in  particular?  Fred 
made  light  of  his  indisposition.  He  was  just  a  trifle  tired, 
h^  said.    Conrad,  eased  by  his  son's  words,  went  to  work. 


92  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Anna  watched  over  him,  however.  She  saw  him  linger  over 
his  food  and  her  mind  was  filling  with  apprehensive  thoughts. 
But  Freddy  made  no  complaints  whatever. 

In  spite  of  the  long  night's  toil  and  the  weariness  of  his 
body,  he  did  not  fall  asleep  at  once.  A  sad,  painful,  yearn- 
ing came  over  him.  He  was  thinking  of  the  evenings  he  was 
sacrificing  to  his  trade,  of  the  joys  that  could  never  be  his, 
he  was  thinking  of  the  girl  he  had  just  seen,  the  outlines  of 
her  body,  her  neck,  her  arms  as  they  shivered  when  they  came 
in  contact  with  the  cold  water.  An  intense  loneliness  seized 
him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  at  sea,  drifting  help- 
lessly, and  would  never  reach  land,  but  would  always  be 
drifting,  drifting  in  semi-twilight,  benumbed  —  tired  — 

In  the  weeks  and  months  that  followed,  the  thought  of  mar- 
riage often  recurred  to  Fred.  More  than  ever  the  escapades 
of  which  his  friends  boasted  seemed  hideous,  offensive  to 
him.  In  a  corner  of  his  brain  hung  as  if  in  a  frame  a  por- 
trait of  a  little  home.  It  was  a  three-room  flat  in  one  of  the 
newer  tenements.  There  was  a  sink  and  water  in  the  kitchen 
—  such  an  improvement  over  the  home  he  had  spent  his  life 
in  thus  far,  where  the  water  had  to  be  pumped  in  the  yard. 
The  sink  was  of  white  enamel  and  the  gas  was  burning 
bright.  Yes,  there  was  even  a  mantle  over  the  gas  jet,  as  he 
had  seen  it  in  some  of  the  homes  of  the  more  up-to-date, 
richer  people  in  the  neighborhood.  The  mantle  made  the 
room  so  light  and  cheery. 

The  picture  of  the  little  flat  always  came  to  him  strongest 
at  dawn  when  the  night's  work  was  drawing  to  a  close  and  the 
morning  air  was  chilly.  With  the  thought  of  the  little  flat, 
of  home,  was  associated  the  thought  of  warmth,  comfort,  rest. 
He  was  eager  then  to  have  the  work  over  with,  to  get  to  the 
house  quickly,  have  done  with  breakfast  and  crawl  into  bed. 


DESIRES  93 

For  sleep  was  kind  to  him.  Dreams  lent  such  reality  to  his 
yearnings.  They  clothed  them  with  substance.  In  his 
dreams  he  was  the  possessor  of  that  light,  cozy  little  flat  with 
the  white  enameled  sink,  and  he  yielded  himself  up  to  the 
softness  and  the  warmth  of  the  home  —  and  of  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  COUNTRY   GIRL 

ANNA  CONRAD  could  not  always  translate  her  feel- 
ings into  proper  words  or  even  clear  thoughts.  She 
realized,  however,  clearly  and  painfully  the  sadness  and 
tragedy  of  her  son's  life.  It  was  not  normal  for  the  boy  to 
work  nights.  She  recalled  her  own  evenings  at  home  on  the 
Rhine.  They  held  some  of  the  pleasantest  moments  of  her 
life.  To  a  boy  of  eighteen  what  treasures  of  thrills  did  not 
a  summer  night  offer ! 

But  to  her  son  these  thrills  never  came.  His  youth  was 
frigid,  barren.  Yet  try  as  she  might  she  could  not  deceive 
herself  into  the  belief  that  her  son's  plight  and  sadness  was 
something  the  New  World  was  to  blame  for.  Evening  was 
evening  here  too.  By  day  the  boys  and  girls  toiled  in  the  shops 
and  factories.  At  night,  however,  the  children  of  the  tene- 
ments drank  from  the  fountain  of  youth  and  happiness.  In 
the  New  World,  too,  evening  was  the  hour  of  the  gods,  the 
hour  of  dreams,  a  time  of  bliss  and  forget  fulness.  Tired  as  a 
girl  might  be  when  she  was  dragging  herself  home  from  work, 
after  supper  she  was  dressed  neatly,  attractively,  and  was 
out  with  her  sweetheart  or  a  friend  for  a  ride  to  the  park,  or 
for  a  walk  along  the  river,  or  to  an  amusement  place.  There 
were  amusement  places  galore  in  New  York. 

The  more  Mrs.  Conrad  brooded  over  these  things,  the 
more  convinced  she  was  that  it  was  not  America  that  was  to 
blame  for  her  son's  loneliness  —  it  was  herself.  Freddy  had 
been  devoting  himself  too  much  to  her.     He  had  tended  to 

94 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  95 

her  ever  since  he  was  a  child.  The  sight  of  his  ailing  mother, 
the  ever-present  dread  that  she  might  die  at  any  time  and  he 
be  left  alone,  had  subdued  all  exuberance  in  the  boy.  His 
soberer  feelings  had  taught  him  to  stem  his  emotions,  to  stifle 
his  longings.  No,  it  was  not  America,  but  her  own  dim 
strength  that  was  lending  such  a  somber  background  to  Fred's 
life. 

When  she  sat  on  the  sidewalk  near  the  house  on  a  hot  sum- 
mer's evening  her  thoughts  went  out  to  her  son,  who  was  now 
standing  in  front  of  a  blazing  oven.  She  would  sigh  and 
moan  to  herself,  lamenting  over  the  joy  of  life  her  son  was 
missing.  Once  or  twice  she  asked  her  husband,  through 
tears,  if  it  were  not  possible  to  get  Freddy  into  some  other 
occupation  where  they  did  not  work  nights.  But  Conrad, 
with  his  more  analytical  mind,  dashed  her  hopes.  Fred  was 
by  this  time  master  of  his  trade,  earning  a  man's  wages.  He 
was  already  a  member  of  the  union  and  ready  to  lead  a 
man's  life.  The  baking  occupation  was  a  bad  choice  to  begin 
with.  But  now,  he  feared,  the  boy  would  do  best  to  stick  to 
it. 

Conrad  had  long  been  waiting  for  the  day  when  his  son 
would  be  eligible  to  the  union.  The  day  came.  As  soon  as 
Fred  passed  his  eighteenth  year  his  auxiliary  standing  in  the 
bakers'  organization  automatically  changed  to  full  member- 
ship. Fred  was  now  a  full-fledged  union  man.  Conrad  fol- 
lowed his  son  eagerly.  He  was  convinced  that  he  had  sown 
the  seeds  of  working-class  thought  in  the  boy's  mind  and  was 
awaiting  the  first  fruits.  He  refrained  from  advising  Fred 
too  much  with  regard  to  his  union  affairs.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  let  his  son  stand  on  his  own  feet.  Nothing  would 
please  him  more  than  to  see  the  boy  strike  out  by  himself  on 
the  road  to  leadership  in  the  proletarian  army. 

Fred's  increasing  wages  brought  about  improvements  in 


96  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

the  home  life  of  the  Conrads.  For  some  time  now  the  family 
had  lived  outside  the  more  congested  blocks.  Their  flat 
was  lighter,  larger.  The  neighborhood  was  a  trifle  more 
American.  Mrs.  Conrad,  especially,  liked  it  here.  As  for 
Fred,  his  new  surroundings  were  soon  to  exercise  a  far-reach- 
ing control  over  his  destinies. 

A  few  doors  away  from  the  new  Conrad  home  there  was  a 
painters'  and  decorators'  shop.  It  was  housed  in  an  old  two- 
story  frame  building,  of  the  type  which  was  then  rapidly  dis- 
appearing in  the  neighborhood  and  making  room  for  three- 
and  four-story  tenement  houses.  The  man  who  kept  the  shop, 
Warren  G.  Gardner,  was  an  old  New  Englander  and  walked 
with  a  decided  limp.  The  place  was  not  a  busy  one.  Mr. 
Gardner,  who  was  doing  contracting  in  the  painting  and  dec- 
orating lines,  was  not  working  himself.  He  was  supervising 
the  work  of  the  three  men  he  employed  and  that  took  only  a 
few  hours  a  day.  The  rest  of  the  time  he  sat  in  front  of  his 
shop  deriving  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  from  the  study  of  and 
association  with  his  neighbors. 

Mr.  Gardner  had  come  to  New  York  from  a  small  town  in 
Massachusetts  nearly  a  generation  back.  But  he  never  lost 
the  atmosphere  of  the  small  town  merchant.  He  soon  got  to 
know  his  neighbors,  and  knowing  them  would  never  fail  to 
greet  them  with  a  "  good  morning  "  or  a  "  good  afternoon." 
This  persistent  attempt  on  his  part  at  being  neighborly  now 
and  then  resulted  in  ridiculous  situations.  More  than  once 
such  a  foreign  neighbor  would  look  puzzled  when  greeted  by 
the  old  Yankee.  Here  and  there  a  man  would  hasten  on 
suspiciously,  as  if  fearing  that  he  was  either  being  made  fun 
of  or  that  the  old  man  was  trying  to  ensnare  him  or  trap  him 
into  something,  else  why  should  he  try  to  speak  to  him?  Mr. 
Gardner  was  amused  by  the  suspicion  of  his  neighbors,  but 
he  did  not  swerve  from  his  custom.     And  in  the  end  he  would 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  97 

win  out.  People  would  get  to  see  his  bonhomie  and  not  only 
would  they  answer  his  greeting,  but  he  soon  taught  them  to 
respond  to  his  remarks  about  the  weather  and  such-like. 
Every  time  Mr.  Gardner  had  thus  "  tamed  "  one  of  his  neigh- 
bors he  felt  a  little  better  for  it,  felt  as  if  he  had  contributed 
his  mite  toward  presenting  the  New  World  in  a  friendly, 
pleasant  light  to  the  newcomer. 

Mr.  Gardner  was  extremely  fond  of  children.  He  and  his 
wife  had  no  children  of  their  own  and  it  was  the  one  great 
disappointment  of  their  lives.  As  the  years  went  on  Mrs. 
Gardner  had  grown  hard.  Her  features  were  strong;  her 
manners  almost  masculine.  She  wasted  no  words  on  any  one. 
A  smile  on  her  lips  was  a  rarity.  While  her  husband  sat  in 
his  chair  in  front  of  the  shop,  or  limped  about  on  the  side- 
walk, smiling,  nodding,  speaking  to  every  one,  she  stayed  in 
their  living-rooms  above  the  shop  and  embroidered  or  knitted. 

Fred  liked  his  Yankee  neighbor  from  the  first.  In  spite 
of  the  iron  gray  of  his  hair,  there  was  something  youthful 
about  Mr.  Gardner.  He  took  care  of  his  appearance  like  a 
young  man.  Fred  never  saw  him  in  the  street  without  a  col- 
lar, a  laid  down  collar  with  a  black  cravat.  He  wore  a  white 
shirt  with  starched  cuffs  every  day,  and  his  vest  and  trousers 
looked  Sunday-like,  though  they  showed  considerable  wear. 
He  never  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  but  held  them  up  with  arm 
bands. 

But  it  was  the  democracy  of  the  man  that  drew  Fred  toward 
him,  though  Fred  did  not  come  to  realize  this  until  later  in 
life.  There  was  a  world-wise  look  in  Mr.  Gardner's  eyes,  but 
not  a  trace  of  cynicism  despite  that.  To  him  living  seemed 
to  be  a  serious  business,  and  a  nice  business.  Life  was  nice, 
and  it  was  up  to  the  people  to  keep  it  nice  and  help  make  it 
nicer  wherever  possible.  Years  after  they  first  met,  he  ex- 
plained these  things  to  Fred  Conrad,  these  and  many  more 


98  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

things.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Gardner  enjoyed  talking  to  the 
boy  merely  because  he  was  level-headed  and  rather  earnest 
for  his  age  and  refined  for  his  surroundings. 

Mr.  Gardner  knew  Fred's  father.  He  had  known  Gott- 
fried even  before  the  Conrads  moved  next  to  his  store,  for  he 
followed  the  life  of  the  German  Colony  and  studied  its 
leaders  and  spokesmen.  Indeed,  the  study  of  these  things 
had  been  a  kind  of  religion  with  Mr.  Gardner  all  through  his 
life.  After  a  fashion  he  considered  himself  a  steward  for 
the  newcomers  with  whom  he  was  thrown  in  contact.  He  was 
here  ahead  of  them,  had  come  of  Revolutionary  stock.  It  was 
up  to  him,  he  felt,  to  help  elucidate  America  to  his  immigrant 
neighbors.  His  native  Anglo-Saxon  reserve  was  always  there 
to  hold  his  activities  within  proper  bounds,  so  that  he  never 
became  a  pest  or  bore  to  his  alien  friends. 

Mr.  Gardner  had  thus  known  Gottfried  Conrad  for  many 
years  and  he  now  studied  his  son  curiously.  They  would 
talk  together  in  the  few  free  hours  Fred  had  in  the  after- 
noon about  a  great  many  things,  and  the  boy  never  failed  to 
get  a  new  idea,  a  new  viewpoint  from  his  Yankee  neighbor. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  entire  country  was  following  the 
Haymarket  case  in  Chicago  with  turbulent  excitement.  In 
the  German  Colony  of  New  York  interest  and  partizanship 
over  the  case  were  at  white  heat.  The  men  condemned  to 
death  were  labor  men  and  most  of  them  German.  Protest 
meetings,  denouncing  the  verdict,  were  held  nightly.  Gott- 
fried Conrad's  fiery  oratory  resounded  at  every  mass  meet- 
ing, at  every  gathering. 

Fred  was  familiar  with  the  details  of  the  case  from  printed 
reports  and  from  his  father's  discussions  with  him.  He  lis- 
tened to  his  father's  denunciations  of  the  verdict  as  legal 
murder  and  shared  his  father's  conviction.  But  he  somehow 
could  not  work  up  enthusiasm  about  the  matter.     He  felt  that 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  99 

despite  the  fact  that  he  was  convinced  that  the  Haymarket 
prisoners  were  innocent  of  the  crime  charged  to  them  and  for 
which  they  were  facing  death,  he  yet  could  not  be  moved  to 
that  depth  of  passion  in  their  behalf  to  which  his  father  was 
stirred.  Occasionally  his  own  passivity  in  the  matter  irri- 
tated him.  Chicago  was  a  neighboring  city  and  yet  he  felt 
about  the  case  as  if  it  were  a  far-off  affair  taking  place  in  the 
depth  of  India  or  in  the  African  Jungle. 

He  was  talking  over  the  anarchist  case  with  Mr.  Gardner 
one  afternoon.  The  old  shopkeeper  listened  to  the  boy  ear- 
nestly for  some  time.  Then  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  came  into 
his  eyes.  His  chance  had  come  to  say  to  the  youth  that  which 
he  had  for  some  time  wished  to  say  to  him,  but  which  his 
native  caution  and  respect  for  the  principle  of  minding  one's 
own  business  had  kept  him  from  saying.  This  time,  however, 
his  chance  was  there  and  he  would  take  advantage  of  it. 

Gardner  had  himself  followed  the  anarchist  case  closely. 
He  had  decided  opinions  about  it,  though  he  never  confided 
them  to  any  one. 

"  The  clamor  for  the  blood  of  these  men,"  Fred  had  been 
saying,  "  comes  largely  because  people  don't  understand  them, 
don't  understand  their  aims,  their  temper.  What  people  don't 
understand,  they  are  hostile  to." 

At  these  words  of  the  boy,  Gardner's  face  lit  up.  "  You 
have  said  something  there,  young  man,"  the  old  Yankee — • 
Gardner  was  nearly  sixty  —  cried  enthusiastically.  "  You 
have  said  something  which  you  will  do  well  to  remember. 
You  might  write  it  down ;  it  is  worth  writing  down :  *  What 
people  don't  understand  they  are  hostile  to.' 

"  My  boy,"  Gardner  warmed  up,  "  I  have  lived  in  this 
part  of  town  for  thirty  years,  barring  the  four  years  I  was 
in  the  War.  I  have  seen  the  first  German  refugees  come  here 
after  the  revolution  of  1848.     I  have  seen  the  labor  movement 


100  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

rise  up.  I  have  seen  the  Germans,  your  father  among  them, 
come  here  and  sow  the  seeds  of  working-class  socialism,  and 
I  have  seen  the  seeds  sprout.  I  have  seen  the  bread  riots  of 
1873.  I  have  seen  scores  of  meetings  of  workingmen,  and 
especially  of  German  workingmen,  broken  up  by  the  police, 
and  the  speakers  dragged  from  the  platform.  I  have  seen  all 
that,  and  I  have  sympathized  with  the  men  —  I  always  sym- 
pathize with  the  under  dog.  I  have  often  tried  to  account  for 
these  clashes  and  differences.  It  took  me  years  and  years 
before  I  realized  that  which  you  have  just  put  in  one  sen- 
tence :  '  What  the  people  don't  understand  they  are  hostile 
to.' 

"  Have  you  ever  seen,"  the  old  man  continued,  "  any  one 
crucified  to-day  because  he  professes  to  be  a  Christian  ?  No. 
Yet  the  Romans  crucified  men  and  women  who  professed  to  be 
Christians.  They  threw  them  into  the  arena  as  food  for 
ravenous  beasts.  They  soaked  their  garments  in  oil  and 
burned  them  alive.  And  yet  the  Romans  were  not  barbarians. 
They  had  a  most  wonderful  civilization.  They  had  philos- 
ophers and  sages.  They  had  lawgivers.  They  had  poets 
and  artists.  Many  of  their  institutions  are  still  at  the  bot- 
tom of  our  institutions.  Roman  law  is  at  the  foundation  of 
our  law.  Why,  then,  were  they  so  intolerant  toward  the 
early  Christians?  The  answer  is:  Because  they  did  not 
understand  them,  and  *  What  people  don't  understand  they 
are  hostile  to.'  " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  as  Fred  said  nothing  the  old  Yan- 
kee resumed: 

"  The  ills  of  our  country,  the  ills  of  our  age  and  of  every 
age,  in  the  final  analysis,  resolve  themselves  to  this  one  thing : 
the  lack  of  understanding  on  the  part  of  the  various  classes  of 
society.  The  policeman  clubs  the  alien  strikers  with  zest, 
with  gusto,  not  solely  on  account  of  the  command  he  has  to 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  loi 

preserve  order  —  his  clubbing  them  does  not  make  for  the 
preservation  of  order  —  but  because  he  does  not  understand 
them,  and  what  one  doesn't  understand  one  is  hostile  to.  The 
foreigner  does  not  speak  the  language  of  the  country.  His 
conduct  is  odd  at  times,  it  is  ridiculous  at  other  times;  and 
sometimes  it  is  annoying.  A  thoughtful  man  knows  that  a 
stranger  in  a  new  country  is  like  a  child  in  a  new  world  and 
much  must  be  overlooked  and  forgiven  until  the  child  grows 
up.  But  most  people  are  not  thoughtful,  and  our  policemen, 
and  the  city  officials  who  give  them  orders,  are  perhaps  the 
least  thoughtful  of  all.  The  oddity  of  the  foreigner  in  them 
provokes  only  resentment.  That  is  the  situation  in  Chicago 
and  that  is  the  situation  here. 

"  I  have  followed  the  case  of  the  Chicago  anarchists,  as 
they  call  themselves.  Many  of  the  wrongs  they  denounce  are 
things  for  which  our  forefathers  would  have  fought  and  bled, 
for  which  I,  an  American  of  many  generations,  would  be 
ready  to  fight.  The  trouble  comes  in,  however,  in  the  lan- 
guage, in  the  method,  in  the  manner  these  men  present  their 
grievances.  They  state  their  grievances  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
in  a  foreign  press.  They  state  them  in  foreign  terms,  in  a 
foreign  psychology.  They  give  their  kernel  of  justice  a  shell 
that  is  unattractive  to  the  American  eye,  and  the  resentment 
toward  the  shell  is  unconsciously  extended  to  the  kernel  it- 
self." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  But  Fred  was  staring  ahead  of 
him,  letting  the  words  of  the  old  Yankee  sink  in  his  mind. 
The  old  man  observed  this  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction  and 
continued : 

"  To  come  to  things  nearer  home,  there  is  your  father.  I 
have  great  admiration  for  him.  I  know  him  to  be  honest 
and  earnest.  And  I  know  his  ideas  are  right.  I  agree  with 
most  of  them;  perhaps  if  I  understood  your  father's  language 


102  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

I  would  agree  with  all  of  them.  How  can  one  take  exception 
to  the  truth  when  one  understands  it?  Here  we  are  in  a 
country  whose  government  is  scarcely  more  than  a  hundred 
years  old.  We  are  on  a  continent  that  is  virgin  soil.  Two 
hundred  years  back  the  ills  of  the  Old  World,  greed,  corrup- 
tion, caste  lines,  with  the  abhorrence  of  work  on  the  one  hand 
and  the  desire  to  enslave  whole  tribes  of  people  and  to  live 
off  their  labor  on  the  other,  were  utterly  unknown  on  this 
continent.  We  have  here  a  country  of  vast  resources  that 
are  still  untapped.  The  first  immigrants  to  this  country 
came  to  seek  freedom,  to  seek  justice,  to  propagate  the  ideas 
of  equality,  to  live  and  let  live,  to  found  new  El  Dorados 
of  human  peace  and  happiness. 

"And  now,  what  has  happened?  Men  have  come  here 
and  have  transplanted,  and  adapted  to  the  new  conditions, 
the  Mephistophelian  system  of  exploitation  which  is  current 
on  the  old  continent.  They  have  built  factories  and  shops 
here,  they  are  operating  mines  and  mills,  not  to  keep  the 
wants  of  all  supplied,  but  for  personal  enrichment.  They 
operate  not  on  the  principle  of  justice,  but  on  the  principle 
of  might.  They  turned  this  country  into  a  dog-eat-dog 
world.  The  wages  they  pay  are  arbitrary  and  the  worker 
must  live  accordingly.  If  he  fights  back  he  gets  a  little 
more;  if  he  is  quiet  they  may  try  to  reduce  his  meager  stipend. 
In  a  land  which  is  the  youngest  country  on  earth  we  have 
more  windowless  rooms,  greater  congestion,  more  poverty, 
consumption,  crime,  insanity  than  are  to  be  seen  in  the  cities 
of  the  Old  World.  And  all  this  has  been  built  up  in  the 
space  of  a  generation.  It  is  being  built  and  aggravated  daily. 
This  poverty  and  want  and  horrible  lists  of  suicide  are  all 
man-made.  It  is  proper  that  men  should  protest  against  such 
a  system.     Indeed,  it  is  the  pith  of  New  World  civilization 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  103 

that  such  wrongs  should  be  protested  against,  should  be  de- 
nounced, uprooted.  But  denounce  them  as  Americans,  in  the 
American  language,  with  American  address.  Your  father, 
the  Haymarket  prisoners  in  Chicago,  all  of  the  German 
socialists  in  this  country,  are  attacking  real  evils.  Their 
cause  is  just,  but  they  fail  to  make  it  appear  so  to  the  Ameri- 
can public.  They  have  reversed  the  sequence  of  things. 
They  should  have  learned  our  ways,  our  language,  should 
have  become  a  part  of  us  first  and  started  in  converting 
us  to  their  ideas  afterwards.  Then  too  they  might  have 
Americanized  their  ideas  a  little,  they  might  have  presented 
them  to  us  in  American  cut  garments.  '  When  in  Rome  do 
as  the  Romans.'  " 

The  following  Sunday  afternoon  Conrad  addressed  a  mass 
meeting  in  behalf  of  the  Haymarket  prisoners.  Fred  was  in 
the  hall  listening  to  his  father's  speech. 

"  I  am  not  an  anarchist,"  Conrad  had  said;  "  in  fact,  I 
am  a  bitter  enemy  of  the  anarchist  philosophy.  But  these 
men  in  Chicago  were  not  sentenced  to  be  hanged  for  their 
professing  an  anarchist  view  of  society,  but  for  being  repre- 
sentatives of  the  working  class.  The  courts  had  not  proved 
that  they  had  committed  an  anarchist  act.  Even  the  police 
dared  not  credit  these  men  with  the  actual  throwing  of  the 
bomb  in  the  Haymarket.  If  they  are  hanged  it  will  be  for 
championing  the  cause  of  the  workingmen.  If  they  are 
hanged  it  will  be  because  they  have  made  a  too  persistent 
fight  for  the  eight-hour  day  with  which  employers  have  no 
sympathy.  If  they  are  hanged  it  will  be  because  the  cap- 
italist class  wants  them  to  serve  as  a  warning  to  other 
workingmen,  to  other  leaders  of  the  oppressed  and  the  down- 
trodden — " 


104  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Throughout  the  speech  women  wept,  men  sat  in  a  daze. 
The  plight  of  seven  laboring  men,  immigrants  like  them- 
selves, had  come  home. 

When  Fred  picked  up  the  English  papers  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  found  a  description  of  the  meeting  to  the  length  of 
a  column.  The  reporter  told  of  a  "  wild-eyed,  frenzied 
crowd,  shouting,  gesticulating,  threatening  death  and  destruc- 
tion to  the  authorities  if  they  dared  to  carry  out  the  law  and 
hang  their  comrades."  Mention  was  made  of  his  father. 
But  all  the  reporter  saw  in  Gottfried  Conrad's  speech  was 
"  a  harangue  in  the  German  vernacular." 

Fred  pondered  long  over  this  line.  His  father  told  him 
that  nothing  else  could  be  expected  from  the  capitalist  press. 
But  he  was  wondering  what  the  reporter  might  have  said  if 
the  speech  had  been  made  in  English,  by  an  American. 
Henceforth  he  deliberately  and  completely  cut  the  "  German 
vernacular  "  from  his  speech,  much  to  the  surprise  of  his 
fellow  workers  in  the  shop  and  in  the  union.  At  home  he 
had  been  speaking  English  for  years  now. 

Fred  now  visited  the  old  decorator  often.  One  afternoon 
Mr.  Gardner  closed  his  shop  and  led  his  visitor  upstairs  into 
a  little  study.  In  that  room  Fred  found  several  diplomas  and 
certificates  from  a  leading  college  which  gave  Mr.  Gardner 
the  right  to  teach.  He  learned  that  Mr.  Gardner  had  been 
a  teacher  prior  to  the  Civil  War.  His  injured  thigh,  which 
old  Gardner  spoke  of  jocularly  as  his  "  war  decoration," 
made  it  necessary  for  him  to  give  up  teaching  and  go  into 
some  other  occupation.  The  painting  and  decorating  busi- 
ness had  been  in  the  family  for  years.  It  was  an  easy  matter 
to  step  into  it.  His  store  was  giving  him  and  his  wife  a 
livelihood.     And  that  was  all  they  needed. 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  105 

"  And  these  are  my  companions,"  Mr.  Gardner  laughed  as 
he  pointed  along  the  wall  to  shelf  upon  shelf  of  books. 
Fred  examined  two  or  three  of  them.  The  names  of  the 
writers  were  new  to  him  and  the  books  were  different  from 
anything  he  had  ever  read  or  seen.  A  feeling  of  humility 
came  over  him. 

Fall  had  set  in  early  that  year.  The  first  week  in  Septem- 
ber it  began  to  rain  and  for  three  weeks  in  succession  wind 
and  storm  raged  unabated.  Then,  just  as  people  were  re- 
signing themselves  to  the  death  of  summer  and  were  begin- 
ning to  take  an  inventory  of  last  year's  winter  garments,  sum- 
mer returned.  It  came  back  overnight  and  greeted  the  city 
on  a  Sunday  morning  with  dazzling  sunshine.  By  noon  the 
tenements  spilled  out  their  inhabitants  by  scores  of  thou- 
sands into  the  parks,  amusement  places,  the  seashore. 

Fred  Conrad,  too,  would  make  the  most  of  that  October 
Sunday.  As  he  had  worked  until  five  that  morning,  he  was 
not  up  until  one-thirty,  and  it  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  when  he  started  out  for  Central  Park.  Mr.  Gard- 
ner was  leaning  back  in  a  rocker  in  front  of  his  store  enjoy- 
ing the  sunshine.     Fred  stopped  to  talk  to  him. 

"  Out  for  a  stroll?  "  Mr.  Gardner  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fred;  "  I  thought  I  would  take  a  look  at  Cen- 
tral Park  again;  there  may  not  be  many  nice  Sundays  left." 

"  No,  there  may  not  be,"  the  old  man  agreed. 

Fred  made  a  move  as  if  to  continue  on  his  walk  when  a 
girl  stepped  out  of  the  hallway  leading  to  the  living-room 
of  the  Gardner  family.  Upon  perceiving  a  stranger,  she 
halted. 

"  Come  right  over,  Elsie;  don't  be  scared  of  Fred  here; 
he  is  almost  a  part  of  the  family."    Mr.  Gardner  was  smil- 


106  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

ing,  and  as  the  girl  came  up  he  introduced  them  to  each 
other.  "  My  niece,  Elsie  Whitney,  and  this  is  Mr.  Conrad, 
our  neighbor." 

Fred  extended  his  hand  with  a  "  Pleased  to  meet  you." 

"  Fearfully  warm  out  here,  isn't  it?  "  the  girl  broke  the 
silence  which  followed  the  greeting. 

"  Yes,  it  is  warm,"  said  Fred.  He  was  looking  straight 
at  her.  It  was  wonderful  to  be  addressed  as  a  man,  to  be 
looked  upon  as  a  man  by  a  woman.  He  was  in  the  habit 
of  still  considering  himself  a  boy. 

Mr.  Gardner  infused  life  into  the  conversation. 

"  My  niece,"  he  said  by  way  of  explanation,  "  has  come 
from  Vermont  only  yesterday."  And  turning  to  the  girl  he 
continued:  "After  you  get  used  to  the  town,  Elsie,  you 
won't  mind  the  heat  so  —  nor  the  elevated  either." 

This  last  the  old  man  said  with  a  twinkle.  The  girl  sup- 
pressed a  giggle. 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  Fred  could  not  tell  whether  she  was 
mocking  or  serious,  "  no.  Uncle,  I'll  never  get  used  to  the 
elevated,  and  I'll  never  let  you  take  me  on  it  again." 

Mr.  Gardner  laughed  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  joke  hugely. 
He  was  telling  Fred  how  he  had  sprung  a  surprise  on  the 
girl  the  previous  day.  He  met  her  at  the  railway  station 
and  took  her  home  on  the  elevated.  He  thought  a  journey 
over  the  roofs  of  New  York  would  amuse  her.  Instead  it 
gave  her  the  shivers. 

"  I'll  give  you  just  about  a  month,"  the  uncle  continued, 
"  and  you  will  know  New  York  as  well  as  you  know  Main 
Street  in  Belfair,  and  you  will  like  it.  Everybody  feels  about 
New  York  the  way  you  do  when  they  first  come  here." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Miss  Whitney  wistfully.  A  rem- 
iniscent look  came  into  her  eyes.  She  seemed  to  be  visual- 
izing something.     Fred  wondered  whether  she  was  thinking 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  107 

of  her  home,  or  whether  it  was  her  future  in  New  York  that 
she  was  painting  with  her  eyes  in  space.     Suddenly  he  spoke. 

"  You  have  not  seen  the  town  yet?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  girl  absently.  Fred  continued  hastily,  as 
if  wishing  to  have  it  over  with : 

"  I'm  going  to  Central  Park.  If  —  do  you  want  to  come 
with  me?  " 

He  was  amazed  at  his  own  boldness.  He  would  have 
swallowed  the  words  if  he  could.  But  it  was  too  late.  The 
girl  meantime  had  cast  a  perplexed  look  at  her  uncle  and 
the  latter  answered  for  her: 

"  Certainly  go  with  Mr.  Conrad.  Very  good  of  you,  Fred. 
Central  Park  will  be  worth  seeing  to-day." 

"  I'll  be  down  directly,"  the  girl  smiled  back  to  Fred  as 
she  ran  up  the  stairs  to  the  living-rooms. 

Fred,  who  remained  alone  with  the  old  man,  was  con- 
fused. Mr.  Gardner  was  not  angry  with  him,  that  was 
certain.  His  heart  beat  furiously  and  then  it  stood  still. 
He  felt  that  he  had  taken  a  momentous  step. 

Mr.  Gardner,  speaking  commonplaces,  took  his  mind  off 
his  now  thrilling,  now  embarrassing  thoughts. 

"  All  right,  Mr.  Conrad,"  and  the  girl  stood  by  his  side, 
her  face  rosy  under  the  drooping  summer  hat.  On  her  arm 
hung  her  jacket. 

Fred  took  the  jacket  from  her.  Courage  surged  through 
his  veins.  She  took  him  for  a  man;  he  would  be  a  man, 
not  a  boy,  not  a  child. 

"  So  long,"  Mr.  Gardner  called  after  them,  and  with  a  sly 
solemnity  added,  addressing  both,  "  And  mind  the  elevated!  " 

It  was  a  day  of  days.  The  mantle  of  boyhood  had  fallen 
from  Fred's  shoulders.  The  thrill  of  his  manhood  was 
coursing  through  his  veins.     He  was  a  man  now  with  a 


io8  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

man's  strength.  In  the  many  Sundays  when  strolling  alone 
through  Central  Park  he  had  observed  the  manners  of  men, 
of  boys,  as  they  walked  through  the  park  with  women,  girls. 
He  had  studied  and  watched  those  things  abstractedly,  merely 
to  keep  his  mind  busy.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
a  time  would  come  when  he  might  stand  in  need  of  just  such 
niceties.  Such  things  seemed  so  remote  from  him.  Now  all 
these  niceties  of  conduct  came  to  him  like  a  chant  of  triumph. 
He  was  not  a  stranger  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  From  the 
moment  he  transferred  the  girl's  jacket  from  her  arm  to  his, 
he  was  showering  her  with  attentions.  He  took  her  arm  at 
every  street  crossing  and  helped  her  up  the  sidewalk.  At 
first  a  queer  sensation  would  run  through  him  at  such  fa- 
miliarities. But  he  was  fortified  every  time  with  the  thought 
that  this  was  the  proper  thing  to  do.  In  the  Park  proper 
his  attentions  appeared  quite  the  thing.  Miss  Whitney, 
who  to  begin  with  had  felt  rather  strange  at  the  attentions 
of  the  young  man  whom  she  had  known  scarcely  an  hour,  was 
more  at  ease  here.  It  was  the  city  —  that  was  to  be  expected. 
City  young  men  were  so  much  more  polite,  so  much  more 
refined  than  the  boys  of  Belfair. 

Fred  was  solicitous.  He  would  not  let  her  get  tired,  he 
was  always  on  the  lookout  for  a  bench  or  nice  spot  to  sit 
down.  He  had  an  eye,  too,  for  the  lemonade  stands  in  case 
she  was  thirsty.  Then  he  suddenly  discovered  that  it  was 
seven  o'clock.  And  in  the  manner  in  which  he  had  often 
enviously  watched  other  young  men  gaily  escort  their  ladies 
to  the  pavilion  where  they  served  sandwiches  and  pies  and 
coffee  and  ice-cream,  he  escorted  Miss  Whitney,  and  there 
watched  her  eat  as  if  she  were  a  sick  child  and  her  life 
depended  upon  taking  a  taste  of  everything  that  he  ordered. 

They  found  a  bench  and  sat  down.  The  moon  sent  fur- 
tive glances  through  the  branches  of  the  tree  as  if  a  trifle  anx- 


A  COUNTRY  GIRL  109 

ious  about  the  inexperienced  couple  and  fearing  that  they 
might  not  take  their  full  share  of  the  joy  of  living  that  eve- 
ning. But  if  such  were  the  moon's  misgivings,  they  were 
entirely  unwarranted,  for  Fred  and  Elsie  spent  a  delightful 
evening  together.  They  talked  of  many  things.  She  of  her 
life  in  the  country  town,  of  the  interminably  long  and  quiet 
evenings,  the  dull  Sundays,  the  dreams  and  pining  for  the 
city,  which  the  old  resented  but  which  was  the  only  thing 
that  kept  the  hearts  of  the  young  people  bright  and  warm. 

Her  frank  wonderment  filled  him  with  hope  and  a  little, 
too,  with  pride.  He  was  born  in  the  city.  There  was  much 
he  would  be  able  to  show  her.  He  thought  gratefully  of  his 
father,  who  had  always  urged  him  to  visit  the  museums, 
aquariums,  the  zoological  gardens,  and  the  like.  Gottfried 
Conrad  saw  in  these  things  education  for  his  son,  while  Fred 
now  anticipated  the  thrills  which  the  sight  of  these  things 
would  bring  her,  and  was  suffocating  with  the  joy  these  an- 
ticipations were  giving  him. 

It  had  grown  late  and  they  started  for  home.  They  were 
tired  and  happy.  Along  the  way  he  pointed  out  various 
buildings  to  her  and  scarcely  noticed  how  time  went.  When 
the  car  reached  their  corner  both  instinctively  regretted  that 
such  a  pleasant  evening  had  to  be  broken  up. 

Mr.  Gardner  had  been  waiting  for  them  and  not  alone. 
He  was  standing  near  the  entrance  to  the  Conrad  home 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Conrad. 

"  Here  they  come,"  Mrs.  Conrad  said  joyously  at  the  sight 
of  the  couple.  She  observed  her  son  before  he  noticed  her. 
The  change  in  him  from  boy  to  man  was  clear  to  her  on  the 
instant  and  sent  a  long  expected  thrill  through  her  heart. 
There  was  no  need  to  introduce  Miss  Whitney  to  her.  Mr. 
Gardner  had  been  talking  about  the  girl  just  as  she  and 
Fred  were  approaching.     Fred's  mother  extended  her  hand 


no  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

to  the  girl  warmly.  She  asked  her  whether  she  liked  New 
York.  Miss  Whitney  felt  like  leaning  upon  somebody's 
chest  and  crying  —  that  was  how  she  felt  about  New  York. 
But  that  she  could  not  do  or  say,  so  she  dropped  into  prose 
and  said  yes,  she  liked  New  York,  and  everything  was 
commonplace  again. 

When  Fred  entered  the  house,  followed  by  his  mother,  the 
sense  of  his  new-found  self  had  not  left  him.  He  was,  in 
fact,  more  conscious  of  it  than  ever.  But  with  that  man- 
hood there  had  come  over  him  a  strange  sadness,  an  un- 
wonted melancholy  that  was  torturesome  and  pleasant. 

His  mother  was  putting  his  supper  on  the  table,  but  he 
was  not  hungry.  She  tried  to  speak  to  him,  but  he  only 
answered  in  monosyllables.  With  palpitating  heart  she  at- 
tempted to  get  at  the  events  of  the  day.  Did  he  have  a 
pleasant  time?  "  Yes,  very  pleasant,"  he  answered,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  very  tired.  His  father  had  not  yet  returned 
from  a  meeting  and  he  was  glad  of  it. 

He  began  to  undress.  He  liked  the  sensation  of  getting 
up  at  six  o'clock  Monday  morning  and  having  the  whole  day 
to  himself.  As  he  was  unlacing  his  shoes,  he  heard  his 
mother  sigh.  He  looked  up  at  her  quickly  and  was  a  little 
startled.  He  had  never  noticed  before:  She  was  an  old 
woman. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FRED   MAKES   A   SPEECH 

LOCAL  UNION  NO.  9  of  the  Bakers'  Amalgamated 
Association  had  nearly  twelve  hundred  members  and 
every  one  of  these  was  in  the  hall  that  Sunday  afternoon, 
despite  the  bitter  cold.  The  union  was  on  the  eve  of  a  crisis. 
For  two  years  it  had  had  an  agreement  with  the  baker  bosses 
specifying  the  hours  of  work,  wages,  sanitary  and  other 
conditions  in  the  bakeshops.  The  contract  was  to  expire 
within  ten  days  and  the  employers  refused  to  renew  it. 

It  was  the  first  crisis  in  union  affairs  at  which  Fred  Con- 
rad sat  as  a  member  with  an  equal  voice.  The  meeting  be- 
gan at  two-thirty  in  the  afternoon.  At  the  opening  of  the 
session  the  business  agent  had  outlined  in  a  few  words  his 
fruitless  negotiations  with  the  baker  bosses.  It  was  five 
o'clock  now  and  Fred  Conrad  was  listening  wearily  to  the 
second  of  the  two  "  principal "  speakers  of  the  occasion. 
One  of  the  speakers  was  an  associate  editor  of  the  Arbeiter 
Zeitung;  the  other  was  the  ex-secretary  of  a  socialist  Local 
in  Germany,  who  had  been  in  the  United  States  only  a  short 
time. 

For  more  than  two  hours  these  men  had  been  hurling  ora- 
torical javelins  against  the  wall  of  capitalism  which  was 
surrounding  modern  society,  and  denouncing  wage  slavery, 
rent  interest  and  profit.  They  vied  with  one  another  in  their 
display  of  erudition.  They  invoked  Lassalle,  they  quoted 
Marx.  They  traced  the  wrongs  of  the  working  class  from  the 
day  when  "  Adam  wove  and  Eve  span."    They  delved  into 

III 


112  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Roman  history  and  resurrected  the  great  rebel  Spartacus. 
They  tossed  back  and  forth  such  words  as  Feudalism,  the 
Wealth  of  Nations,  Materialism.  They  conjured  up  the 
Shades  of  Proudhon  and  Saint-Simon  to  bear  witness  to  the 
injustice  of  the  system  of  private  property.  They  called  upon 
the  workers  to  rise  to  a  man,  "  rise  like  lions  "  to  abolish 
capitalist  society  and  inaugurate  the  cooperative  common- 
wealth. The  throng  applauded  eagerly  every  time  the 
speaker  made  a  telling  point. 

Fred  was  fidgety  and  to  hide  his  impatience  was  studying 
the  audience.  He  knew  most  of  the  men  by  sight  if  not  to 
speak  to.  He  had  seen  them  at  meetings,  meetings  which 
his  father  had  addressed  and  at  which  Gottfried  had  said 
precisely  the  same  things  the  speaker  was  saying  now.  These 
men  must  have  heard  the  same  statements,  the  same  denuncia- 
tions, the  same  proof  of  the  wrong  and  iniquity  of  private 
property  for  the  hundredth  time.  And  still  they  were  listen- 
ing eagerly  to  it,  they  were  applauding  these  speeches  and 
sentiments.  What  a  tiresome  spectacle!  What  a  waste  of 
time  and  energy !  He  knew  all  of  these  men  to  be  socialists. 
Each  of  them  had  long  been  converted  to  the  theories  the 
speakers  were  expounding.  Where  was  the  sense  in  trying  to 
convert  people  who  have  long  been  converted?  Didn't  the 
speakers  see  the  uselessness  of  their  propaganda  here  ?  Was 
not  the  audience  aware  of  it  ?  Instead  of  saying  these  things 
over  to  themselves  for  the  hundredth  time,  why  did  not  both 
speakers  and  audience  go  out  and  try  to  gain  new  recruits  to 
their  ideas  ?  Why  did  not  they  try  to  convert  the  great  Amer- 
ican masses,  if  they  really  meant  to  accomplish  the  economic 
and  social  changes  they  were  preaching,  if  they  were  serious 
in  the  war  they  were  declaring  upon  modern  society?  Were 
they  all  mere  dreamers?  Were  they  mere  children  in  the 
practical  affairs  of  life  ? 


FRED  MAKES  A  SPEECH  113 

He  checked  his  meditations.  Was  he  not  going  too  far  in 
his  criticisms?  His  father  had  warned  him  not  to  fall  too 
much  under  the  influence  of  his  Yankee  neighbor.  Old  Man 
Gardner  no  doubt  was  honest  and  well  meaning,  but  he  had 
no  first-hand  knowledge  of  industrial  conditions,  Gottfried 
had  explained  to  him.  He  had  never  worked  in  a  factory. 
Gardner's  life  and  viewpoint  went  back  to  an  older  genera- 
tion, a  generation  reared  in  small  American  towns,  a  genera- 
tion which  knew  nothing  of  the  relentless  tyranny  and  ex- 
ploitation of  the  factory  system  in  the  modern  city,  in  New 
York.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Gardner  to  be  philosophical 
about  things,  to  be  critical  of  his  German  neighbors,  to  chide 
them  for  not  acquiring  manners,  polish.  He  had  no  children 
working  in  sweatshops.  He  never  experienced  the  lash  of 
the  foreman,  he  never  knew  the  petty  tricks  of  employers 
for  squeezing  out  more  work  while  at  the  same  time  bring- 
ing down  your  wages.  Before  the  poor  can  acquire  manners 
they  must  have  bread,  they  must  have  better  homes,  more 
air,  more  sunlight,  they  must  have  a  little  something  saved, 
so  as  not  to  be  haunted  by  the  specter  of  unemployment  and 
starvation. 

"  With  all  his  humanitarianism,  and  his  love  of  fair  play," 
Gottfried  once  said  to  his  son,  "  Mr.  Gardner  is  himself  a 
member  of  the  exploiting  class.  He  has  never  worked  with 
his  hands.  It  is  easy  to  be  calm  and  philosophical  when  the 
shoe  pinches  somebody  else's  foot." 

Fred  recalled  these  words  of  his  father  now.  He  was  try- 
ing to  be  just  to  the  men  to  whose  ranks  he  had  only  recently 
been  admitted.  Nevertheless,  impatience  was  rankling  in 
him.  His  American  directness  was  asserting  itself.  No,  he 
was  not  altogether  wrong.  His  impatience  was  justified. 
Why  could  not  these  speakers  reserve  their  addresses  for  some 
other  time?    They  could  be  delivered  at  any  other  time  just 


114  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

as  well.  Right  now  the  union  had  important  business  to  set- 
tle. A  strike  was  imminent :  it  was  inevitable.  They  should 
have  employed  these  hours  toward  making  the  strike  effective. 
Most  of  the  recent  strikes  in  the  colony  had  been  miserable 
failures,  fiascos,  because  they  were  mismanaged.  He  was 
shaken  out  of  his  ruminations  by  a  storm  of  applause.  The 
last  of  the  two  speakers  had  finished.  Fred  noted  the  ex- 
pression of  relief  that  came  into  the  chairman's  face.  The 
president  of  the  union,  Theodore  Lange,  presided.  He  was 
now  rapping  for  order  furiously,  eager  to  get  down  to  busi- 
ness. 

Lange  minced  no  words.  The  refusal  of  the  bosses  to  re- 
new the  agreement  with  the  union  could  have  but  one  mean- 
ing, he  said:  the  employers  were  out  to  break  the  union. 
There  was  but  one  response  the  union  could  make  —  strike. 
He  would  appoint  a  committee  to  visit  the  employers.  If 
they  did  not  sign  the  agreement  before  next  Sunday  the  union 
would  resort  to  the  only  alternative  and  order  the  men  to 
quit  work. 

The  chairman  appointed  the  committee,  three  men  who 
stood  high  in  the  councils  of  the  organization.  He  then 
looked  about  the  hall.  If  there  were  no  further  questions, 
or  any  other  business,  the  meeting  would  be  declared  ad- 
journed. 

"  A  point  of  information,  Mr.  Chairman."  Fred  Conrad 
was  up  from  his  seat.  His  words  electrified  the  audience. 
It  was  the  first  time  a  member  had  addressed  the  chairman 
in  English.  Most  of  the  men  spoke  English  after  a  fashion 
in  street-cars,  in  stores,  or  wherever  else  they  came  in  contact 
with  Americans.  Many  of  them  even  spoke  it  at  home;  they 
were  compelled  by  their  American-reared  children  to  answer 
them  in  English  now  and  then.     But  in  their  societies,  in  their 


FRED  MAKES  A  SPEECH  115 

lodges  and  unions,  they  spoke  German.  It  was  not  merely 
that  they  could  express  themselves  better  in  their  native 
tongue.  They  were  ashamed  to  speak  English  among  them- 
selves—  it  seemed  to  them  clownish  to  drop  their  native 
tongue  and  attempt  to  speak  in  a  foreign  language  which 
they  knew  but  imperfectly.  They  did  not  mind  exposing 
their  accent  to  an  Irishman  or  a  Yankee,  but  they  feared  to 
expose  it  to  one  of  their  own  kind.  Germans  who  "  tried  to 
play  Yankee  "  were  burlesqued  in  the  papers  and  on  the 
stage. 

All  eyes,  therefore,  were  riveted  upon  young  Conrad,  who 
seemed  not  at  all  conscious  of  having  done  anything  extraor- 
dinary. He  was  accustomed  to  think  in  English  even  when 
listening  to  speeches  in  German.  The  chairman,  Theodore 
Lange,  was  one  of  the  younger  men,  and  was  pretty  well 
Americanized.  He  quickly  overcame  a  momentary  embar- 
rassment and  now  that  the  ice  was  broken  he  answered  Fred 
likewise  in  English. 

"  What  is  your  point  of  information,  Brother  Conrad  ?  " 
he  asked. 

It  was  the  first  time  Fred  had  been  addressed  as  "  Brother 
Conrad."  It  was  the  first  time  he  was  addressed  as  a  col- 
league by  a  man  twice  his  age.  He  was  the  equal  of  all  of 
these  men  now.  It  was  a  glorious  feeling.  But  he  had  no 
time  to  surrender  himself  to  the  sensation  of  joy  which  his 
own  self-assertion  and  the  recognition  of  it  by  others  was 
giving  him.  The  chairman  had  asked  him  a  question.  He 
was  answering  it: 

"  My  point  of  information  is  this :  If  a  strike  is  called, 
this  is  the  last  meeting  at  which  preparations  for  such  strike 
should  be  made,  is  it  not?  " 

The  eyes  of  the  entire  audience  were  now  fixed  upon  the 


ii6  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

slender  youth  who  was  questioning  the  chair.  Had  Fred 
spoken  German  he  would  have  had  scant  attention.  His 
English  speech  distinguished  him. 

"  I  don't  quite  grasp  your  question,  Brother  Conrad,"  the 
chair  answered.  "  Will  you  please  state  it  a  little  more 
clearly?  " 

"My  question,"  said  Fred,  "  is  this:  What  preparations 
have  been  made  to  meet  the  situations  and  difficulties  that 
are  likely  to  arise  if  a  strike  is  called  ?  The  contracts  expire 
in  ten  days.  If  they  are  not  renewed  before  the  end  of  this 
week  the  strike  will  be  ordered  at  next  Sunday's  meeting. 
There  will  be  no  time  to  make  preparations  for  the  strike 
then.  The  time  to  make  such  preparations  is  between  now 
and  then,  between  to-day  and  next  Sunday." 

The  chairman  surveyed  the  crowd  as  if  seeking  light  in  the 
faces  of  his  audience.  But  there  was  no  word  coming  from 
any  one.  The  audience  was  looking  from  Fred  to  the  chair- 
man and  from  the  chairman  to  Fred. 

"  What  are  the  preparations  you  have  in  mind,  Brother 
Conrad?  "  the  chairman  asked,  still  dubiously. 

Fred's  answer  came  readily.  He  had  had  it  in  his  mind 
for  some  time. 

"  A  lawyer,"  he  said.  "  The  first  thing  we  ought  to  do  is 
hire  a  lawyer." 

"  Will  Brother  Conrad  please  step  up  to  the  platform,  so 
we  can  all  hear  him  ?  "  The  voice  was  that  of  August  Mil- 
ler, a  well-known  figure  in  the  German  Colony  and  a  friend 
of  Fred's  father,  Gottfried  Conrad. 

"  On  the  platform!  "  Several  others  approved  Miller's 
suggestion,  and  Fred  made  his  way  to  the  rostrum. 

"  What  I  wish  to  say,"  Fred  resumed  after  the  palpitating 
of  his  heart  had  settled  to  normal  in  the  half  minute  which 
the  journey  from  his  seat  to  the  platform  occupied,  "  is  this: 


FRED  MAKES  A  SPEECH  117 

We  ought  to  get  a  lawyer  to  look  after  our  interests.  There 
has  not  been  a  strike  in  this  city  recently  that  has  not  been 
interfered  with  by  the  police.  Now  there  are  certain  rights 
which  every  one  of  us,  which  every  one  in  this  country  has, 
such  rights  as  free  speech,  free  assembly.  Any  man  has  a 
right  to  patrol  the  street  —  that  is  what  picketing  amounts 
to.  When  the  police  annoy  a  man  who  is  walking  along  the 
street  peacefully,  they  are  violating  the  law.  In  every  recent 
strike  the  police  have  curtailed  these  rights  of  the  men. 
This  must  not  happen  in  the  next  strike.  We  ought  to  know 
just  what  our  rights  as  citizens  are.  We  ought  to  know  just 
what  we  have  a  right  to  do,  and  what  not.  A  lawyer  could 
tell  us  that.  And  when  a  policeman  violates  our  rights  we 
ought  to  know  that  he  is  violating  them  and  tell  our  lawyer. 
Let  him  take  action  and  bring  the  offending  officer  to  jus- 
tice. The  policeman  has  no  more  right  to  break  the  law 
than  a  striker  has.  We  live  in  a  country  governed  by  laws. 
It  is  imperative,  to  my  mind,  that  we  have  a  lawyer  to  advise 
us  with  regard  to  our  rights  and  to  warn  us  away  from 
interfering  with  the  rights  of  others.     That's  all." 

It  was  a  remark  of  Mr.  Gardner's  that  Fred  had  developed 
into  this  little  speech,  and  he  thought  of  the  old  Yankee  as 
he  was  descending  from  the  platform. 

August  Miller,  in  the  rear  of  the  hall,  clapped  his  hands 
and  in  a  moment  the  entire  building  resounded  with  ap- 
plause for  Fred.  When  the  hand-clapping  subsided,  the 
chairman,  addressing  Fred,  who  was  now  in  his  seat  among 
the  audience,  asked  whether  he  wanted  to  put  his  remarks  in 
the  form  of  a  motion. 

"  You  can  take  it  as  a  motion,"  Fred  replied. 

A  score  of  men  in  various  parts  of  the  hall  seconded  the 
motion  and  when  it  was  carried  the  chairman  concluded : 

*'  And  now  I  appoint  Brother  Conrad  a  member  of  the 


ii8  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

committee  which  is  to  take  up  negotiations  with  the  employ- 
ers and  I  widen  the  scope  of  the  committee  so  that  it  may 
undertake  such  preparations  for  a  strike  as  Brother  Conrad 
has  outlined." 

There  was  another  outburst  of  applause.  The  meeting 
was  over,  and  men  now  crowded  about  Fred,  shook  hands 
with  him,  praised  and  approved  his  ideas,  and  all  of  this 
approval  somehow  came  in  English.  Fred  was  embarrassed 
at  heart,  but  he  did  not  show  it.  The  training  in  facing 
audiences  which  his  father  had  given  him  by  taking  him  on 
the  platform  with  him  ever  since  he  was  a  little  boy,  now 
stood  Fred  Conrad  in  good  stead.  Still  he  was  greatly  re- 
lieved when  he  extricated  himself  from  the  crowd  and 
started  for  home. 

Gottfried  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  meeting  which  he 
was  to  address  and  Fred  was  glad  of  it.  He  wanted  a  few 
minutes  to  himself  to  think  it  over,  to  visualize  all  that  had 
taken  place  that  afternoon.  He  settled  down  in  a  rocker  and 
tried  to  recall  just  what  he  had  said  and  how  he  had  acted 
on  the  platform.  He  could  find  no  fault  with  himself. 
Everything  had  gone  well.  He  had  not  only  stated  his 
point,  but  it  was  carried,  and  what's  more  he  was  now  a 
member  of  the  committee  which  was  to  conduct  negotiations 
with  the  bosses.  To-morrow  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing the  committee  would  hold  a  special  session.  The  presi- 
dent of  the  union  had  reminded  him  to  be  on  hand  at  the 
meeting  as  they  were  leaving  the  hall  together. 

Besides  the  honor  there  was  another  significance  in  this 
thing  —  a  significance  which  had  just  occurred  to  him.  The 
men  who  were  appointed  on  such  committees  were  not  sup- 
posed to  work  in  the  shop  during  the  time  they  were  working 
for  the  union.  The  union  paid  them  the  wages  they  earned 
in  the  shop  and  even  their  expenses.    This  meant  that  for 


FRED  MAKES  A  SPEECH  119 

a  whole  week  he  would  not  be  working  at  night,  he  would 
have  the  nights  to  himself  —  he  would  see  Elsie  every  eve- 
ning. 

And  then  he  forgot  everything  else  and  thought  of  Elsie. 
How  beautiful  she  had  become  in  the  three  months  she  had 
been  in  New  York!  She  had  unfolded  like  a  flower. 
Everything  she  saw  in  the  city  thrilled  her.  And  whatever 
she  had  seen  had  been  in  his  company.  He  had  taken  her  out 
every  Sunday.  And  now  he  would  be  free  in  the  evening  a 
whole  week  in  succession  —  he  must  rush  to  see  her  at  once. 
Supper?     He  looked  about  and  saw  his  father  enter. 

At  a  glance  Fred  realized  that  something  very  pleasant 
had  happened  to  his  father.  He,  too,  must  have  scored  a 
great  triumph  that  afternoon,  he  thought.  And  his  surmise 
was  right.  Only  the  triumph  which  Gottfried  Conrad 
scored  was  his  son's  triumph.  August  Miller,  who  was  re- 
sponsible for  hustling  Fred  up  on  the  platform  to  make  his 
little  speech  there  before  the  entire  union  membership,  had 
stopped  in  at  the  hall  where  Gottfried  Conrad  had  spoken 
and  congratulated  him  upon  Fred's  achievement. 

"  You  can  be  proud  of  your  boy,"  Miller  had  said  after 
telling  of  Fred's  speech  and  his  appointment  to  the  strike 
committee;  "  he  is  a  bom  leader,  a  chip  of  the  old  block." 

In  the  three  blocks  from  the  hall  to  his  home  two  other 
men,  bakers  who  knew  him,  stopped  Gottfried  Conrad  to  tell 
him  about  his  son,  how  he  had  leaped  into  leadership  at  a 
stroke. 

The  words  of  praise  for  his  Fred  were  ringing  in  Conrad's 
ears  as  they  sat  down  to  the  evening  meal.  His  face  beamed. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  send  furtive  glances  at  his  son, 
which  caused  Fred  to  suspect  that  his  father  might  have  heard 
something  of  the  afternoon's  happenings.  Conrad  was  wait- 
ing for  the  boy  to  speak,  to  tell  him.     But  Fred  was  not 


120  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

making  the  least  reference  to  the  meeting.  They  talked 
commonplaces.  Fred  was  looking  at  the  clock  constantly. 
He  was  anxious  to  get  out  —  to  Elsie. 

As  they  rose  from  the  table  Gottfried  could  contain  him- 
self no  longer. 

"  I  hear  you  have  been  appointed  on  the  committee  which 
is  to  handle  the  next  strike,"  Gottfried  said. 

"  Yes,"  Fred  replied  calmly,  "  they  added  my  name  to 
the  list." 

Gottfried  would  have  liked  to  hear  in  detail  about  the 
little  speech  which  his  son  had  made,  but  Fred  was  non- 
committal on  that.  And  the  reticence  of  his  son  suddenly 
assumed  a  significance  in  the  father's  eyes.  That  was  the 
spirit  of  true  leadership  —  to  make  light  of  its  own  achieve- 
ments, to  look  forward  to  newer  conquests  instead  of  basking 
in  the  glory  of  the  old  ones.  Yes,  his  Lassalle  was  showing 
real  character.     He  would  be  heard  from. 

When  Fred  left  the  house,  Gottfried  Conrad  shook  up  the 
fire,  threw  in  a  few  coals  and,  bringing  his  chair  close  to 
the  stove,  sat  down.  He  was  not  going  out  that  evening  to 
any  meeting.  That  was  triumph  enough  for  one  day.  He 
picked  up  the  paper  as  a  pretense  for  staying  home,  but  he 
did  not  read.  He  did  not  even  open  it.  He  sat  rapt  in  vi- 
sions. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ELSIE 

ELSIE  WHITNEY  was  six  months  older  than  Fred. 
She  was  the  youngest  of  eight  children,  but  only  one 
of  them  was  living  besides  herself  —  her  brother  George. 
The  others  had  died,  some  in  infancy  and  some  later.  One 
of  them,  a  sister,  had  died  five  years  back,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  and  this  sent  her  mother  to  a  comparatively  early 
grave.     Mrs.  Whitney  was  only  fifty-two  when  she  died. 

Mathew  Whitney,  Elsie's  father,  owned  a  blacksmith  shop 
on  the  outskirts  of  Belfair  and  had  been  assisted  in  the 
management  of  the  place  by  his  only  son  ever  since  the  boy 
was  twelve  years  old.  After  his  wife's  death,  Mr.  Whitney's 
attacks  of  rheumatism  came  on  with  increasing  frequency. 
For  two  and  a  half  years  he  still  looked  after  the  shop, 
though  his  son  did  all  the  work.  Then  he  was  laid  up  for 
six  weeks  in  succession.  It  was  feared  he  would  die ;  he  was 
in  the  sixties.  But  he  recovered.  When  he  again  left  his 
bed,  however,  his  career  as  a  blacksmith  was  over.  His 
muscles  would  no  longer  obey  him. 

From  the  day  her  mother  died  the  house  had  rested  upon 
Elsie's  shoulders.  It  was  monotonous  work,  but  she  did  it 
without  a  murmur.  Her  responsibilities  sobered  her  beyond 
her  years.  She  was  critical  of  her  surroundings,  and  girls 
her  own  age  seemed  to  her  mere  children  in  comparison  with 
herself.  What  did  they  know  of  life's  bitterness  and  hard- 
ships? These  girls  could  still  make  their  dreams  of  the  fu- 
ture rhyme,  as  it  were,  with  their  little  town ;  not  she.     There 

121 


122  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

was  no  future  in  Belfair  for  her.  Her  girl  friends  were  long- 
ing for  homes  of  their  own.  She  had  one.  She  had  been 
keeping  house  for  three  years.  She  knew  what  it  meant. 
It  was  a  dull  business.  Marraige  would  add  to  the  routine, 
but  she  doubted  whether  it  could  bring  her  happiness  —  in 
Belfair.  She  knew  all  the  boys  in  the  town  —  the  avail- 
able ones.  They  were  all  good  "  hewers  of  wood  and  draw- 
ers of  water  " —  she  had  carried  off  many  prizes  in  the  Sun- 
day-school and  knew  her  Bible  well  —  but  that  was  all  they 
were.  She  had  not  known  many  people  outside  her  little 
town,  but  she  knew,  she  felt,  that  there  were  somehow  other 
people  in  the  world,  people  who  did  things,  people  whose  life 
was  not  one  round  of  monotonous  plodding.  She  read  books 
occasionally.  In  the  books  the  men  were  so  irresistible  — 
they  could  just  make  a  girl's  heart  melt.  She  would  do  any- 
thing for  such  men.  But  these  men  were  mostly  in  New 
York.  Ah,  New  York!  She  thought  of  it  wistfully  for 
hours,  dreamed  of  it.  .  .  . 

And  then  it  happened,  as  it  always  happens.  Brother 
George  got  himself  engaged  to  the  very  girl  his  sister  would 
least  have  him  marry.  She  and  Mary  Brennon  never  would 
tolerate  each  other.  She  would  not  stay  in  the  same  house 
with  Mary.  But  the  house  was  George's,  he  was  the  only 
one  who  worked  and  he  was  twenty-eight,  and  he  knew  his 
own  mind.  So  Elsie  thought  and  thought  for  a  long  time 
and  then  opened  the  chest  where  her  mother  had  kept  her 
letters  and  family  heirlooms.  After  a  prolonged  search  she 
found  a  faded  scrap  of  paper  with  the  address  of  her  moth- 
er's brother,  her  uncle  Warren  G.  Gardner,  in  New  York. 
It  was  a  week  before  she  had  composed  the  kind  of  letter 
she  thought  proper. 

Her  mother  had  never  said  anything  derogatory  about  her 
husband's  family,  about  the  Whitneys.     But  there  was  a 


ELSIE  123 

memory  rooted  in  Elsie's  brain,  a  memory  of  a  sad  look  at 
times,  and  of  a  disdainful  curl  of  her  mother's  lip  when  she 
and  her  husband  would  talk  family.  Though  Mrs.  Whit- 
ney would  never  say  it,  Elsie  was  certain  that  her  mother's 
family  was  superior  to  her  father's.  The  Gardners  were 
nicer  people.  Elsie  had  heard,  too,  though  for  the  life  of  her 
she  could  not  recall  who  told  her  this,  that  she  took  after  the 
Gardners,  while  George  took  more  after  his  father's  family. 
Whenever  she  had  a  run-in  with  her  brother  she  was  more 
than  willing  to  believe  and  even  proclaim  this  difference  be- 
tween them. 

The  letter  which  she  received  from  her  uncle  in  New  York 
by  return  post  scattered  Elsie's  poise  to  the  winds.  She 
could  hardly  finish  it.  She  wept  and  then  she  kissed  it  and 
folded  it  against  her  breast.  It  was  as  if  her  mother  had 
come  back  to  life  and  was  taking  her  tired  little  head  in  her 
arms,  and  soothing  her  and  assuring  her  that  everything  was 
well,  that  everything  would  come  out  right.  The  superiority 
of  the  Gardner  family  spoke  through  every  line  of  her  uncle's 
letter.     She  had  no  longer  any  doubt  of  it  now. 

Mr.  Gardner  welcomed  his  niece  with  open  arms.  They 
were  not  rich,  he  wrote,  just  getting  along.  But  she  was 
more  than  welcome  to  what  they  had.  He  had  often,  since 
his  sister's  death,  wished  that  he  might  have  her,  his  sister's 
child,  with  him.  Yes,  he  —  they  would  be  indebted  to  Elsie 
if  she  came  to  live  with  them.  They  were  rather  lonely  in 
New  York.  It  would  brighten  their  old  age  to  have  their 
niece  near  them.  They  would  do  all  they  could  to  take  the 
place  of  her  parents  to  her  —  of  her  dead  mother.  She  was 
to  write  at  once  when  she  would  come. 

From  the  moment  Fred  Conrad  took  the  jacket  from  Elsie's 
arm  on  that  Sunday  of  their  first  meeting  when  he  was  taking 


124  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

her  to  Central  Park,  he  had  become  Elsie's  mentor.  Much  of 
the  tender  solicitude  which  characterized  his  relations  with 
his  mother,  now  with  a  single  stroke  went  over  to  the  girl. 
On  the  first  afternoon  of  their  meeting  Elsie  had  made  known 
to  him  her  purpose  not  to  be  a  burden  upon  her  uncle.  She 
would  be  self-supporting.  She  meant  to  go  to  work  at  some- 
thing as  soon  as  she  had  a  look  at  the  town  and  saw  what 
she  could  do.  She  had  asked  Fred  about  the  occupations  of 
girls  in  the  city,  the  conditions  of  work,  pay,  and  the  like. 
But  he  did  not  know  any  girls  intimately  and  could  not  tell 
her  about  these  things  offhand.  He  would  try  to  find  out, 
and  he  did.  Whenever  he  heard  something  about  girls  and 
their  work  he  reported  it  to  Elsie  at  the  first  opportunity. 

Elsie  took  this  interest  of  Fred  without  any  embarrassment 
or  diffidence  largely  because  of  the  familiarity  with  which 
her  uncle  had  introduced  him  to  her  when  they  first  met.  Mr. 
Gardner  had  spoken  of  Fred  Conrad  as  "  almost "  a  member 
of  the  household.  That  at  once  removed  all  barriers  between 
them  and  put  them  on  a  footing  of  friendship,  almost  relation- 
ship. The  name  Fred  was  constantly  on  her  lips  and  fre- 
quently, in  speaking  to  him,  Elsie  had  difficulty  in  keeping  it 
back  and  addressing  him  as  Mr.  Conrad. 

For  a  month  in  succession  after  her  arrival  Fred  saw  her 
every  day  for  a  little  while  in  the  afternoon.  On  Sundays 
he  would  invariably  spend  the  evenings  with  her,  strolling 
through  the  streets  when  weather  permitted  and  at  home  or 
in  a  music  hall  when  it  was  bad.  Then  Miss  Whitney  found 
a  place  in  a  store  and  thereafter  his  meetings  were  reduced 
to  once  a  week  —  on  Sundays  only. 

After  a  fight  of  three  weeks  the  strike  was  won.  The 
baker  bosses  not  only  renewed  the  old  agreement,  but  even  a 
few  additional  concessions  were  gained  by  the  men.    Not  a 


ELSIE  125 

small  share  of  this  victory  was  ascribed  to  the  influence  and 
personality  of  Fred  Conrad.  As  a  member  of  the  strike  com- 
mittee he  had  been  invaluable.  He  had  given  this  strike 
a  tenor  which  no  other  bakers'  strike  had  had  hitherto.  His 
reputation  among  the  union  members  was  established.  He 
was  talked  about  throughout  the  German  colony. 

As  he  had  suggested,  a  lawyer  was  engaged  by  the  union. 
The  strikers  were  told  just  exactly  what  their  rights  were  in 
the  matter  of  patrolling  the  streets  as  pickets.  During  the 
first  days  of  the  strike  Fred  would  stroll  through  the  strike 
zone  and  wherever  he  perceived  trouble  between  the  strikers 
and  a  policeman  he  appeared  on  the  scene  and  introduced 
himself  to  the  officer  as  a  member  of  the  strike  committee  that 
was  appointed  to  see  that  order  was  maintained  by  the  union 
men.  He  was  anxious  to  cooperate  with  the  officer  in  all 
that  pertained  to  maintaining  order,  he  explained. 

The  tall  American  youth,  speaking  a  clear-cut  English, 
often  much  clearer  than  the  officer  spoke,  had  a  peculiar  ef- 
fect upon  the  police.  They  were  accustomed  to  handle 
foreign-speaking  strikers  like  a  herd  of  cattle,  which  meant 
to  shoo  them  off  the  sidewalk  like  vagabonds,  to  bulldoze 
and  intimidate  them.  They  could  not  do  it  now.  Word 
somehow  got  around  quickly  that  the  strikers  had  a  lawyer, 
and  that  the  lawyer  had  instructed  them  just  what  things 
they  could  or  could  not  do,  and  that  the  policeman  who  in- 
fringed upon  the  legal  rights  of  any  one  of  them  would  be 
held  legally  responsible  by  the  union.  It  was  something  new 
and  had  a  dampening  effect  upon  the  zeal  of  many  an  officer. 

During  the  weeks  the  strike  was  on,  Fred  had  visited 
Elsie  every  evening.  At  times  these  visits  were  short,  last- 
ing no  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Their  very  short- 
ness, however,  would  add  to  the  intensity  of  their  delight. 
It  was  a  joy  to  see  her,  to  talk  to  her.     He  waited  eagerly 


126  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

twenty- four  hours  for  these  short  visits;  he  was  dreaming  of 
them.  The  busier  he  was,  the  greater  the  demands  upon 
him,  the  more  poignant  his  longing  for  the  girl  was. 

Time  and  again  when  he  was  in  a  committee  meeting  at 
which  strike  measures  were  decided  on,  his  mind  would  wan- 
der to  the  little  parlor  in  Old  Man  Gardner's  home.  The 
thought  of  Elsie  traveled  side  by  side  with  whatever  he  did 
or  talked  of  or  thought.  Now  these  delightful  nightly  visits 
were  ended.  He  would  have  to  content  himself  with  seeing 
her  once  a  week  again.  But  he  could  not  content  himself. 
Weekly  visits  to  her  would  no  longer  suffice.  He  was  pining 
for  the  girl.  His  yearning  for  her  was  wrecking  him.  From 
Monday  morning  until  Saturday  night  he  was  sickly,  morbid. 
He  began  to  feel  pains,  in  the  head,  the  groin,  the  chest. 
His  parents  were  worried.  But  he  would  say  nothing,  would 
not  listen  to  talk  of  seeing  a  doctor.  In  the  middle  of  March 
he  broke  down.  He  caught  a  severe  cold  and  was  ordered  to 
bed.  He  was  laid  up  ten  days.  It  was  another  week  before 
he  was  able  to  go  to  work.  Mr.  Gardner  and  Elsie  came 
to  see  him  twice.  By  that  time,  he  was  able  to  visit  them. 
And  then  it  was  spring. 

It  was  the  last  Sunday  in  April.  The  balm  of  spring  was 
in  the  air  even  on  the  congested  East  Side  of  New  York.  It 
came  with  the  breeze  from  the  East  River;  it  came  from  the 
distant  fields  of  Long  Island  and  the  bare  tracts  of  grass- 
covered  ground  in  Brooklyn.  Elsie  was  restless  all  morn- 
ing. She  was  thinking  of  home,  of  Belfair.  The  gusts  of 
wind  sounded  to  her  like  the  blowing  of  the  bellows  in  her 
father's  blacksmith  shop.  The  house  and  garden  danced 
before  her  eyes  and  her  heart  ached.  Mary  was  there  now, 
in  the  place  where  she  had  been,  where  her  mother  had  been 
before  her. 


ELSIE  127 

It  was  afternoon.  George  and  his  wife  were  out  riding 
in  the  buggy.  Father  was  left  alone.  He  hobbled  about  the 
yard  aimlessly.  His  body  was  bent,  twisted  with  rheumatism. 
His  eyes  were  bleared,  as  if  hung  over  with  a  transparent 
curtain.  How  horrible  old  age  was.  What  a  contrast  the 
distorted  human  body  offered  to  the  freshness  and  delights 
of  nature. 

She  was  not  aware  for  some  time  that  she  was  crying. 
Only  when  her  heart  had,  of  a  sudden,  experienced  a  sooth- 
ing ease,  a  feeling  of  tender  melting  and  soft  relaxation,  did 
she  become  conscious  of  her  tears.  But  she  did  not  try  to 
stem  them.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  in  somebody's  arms,  rest- 
ing, relaxing,  swinging  into  eternity  to  her  mother,  to  the 
angels.  The  tears  were  kind  to  her.  She  sobbed  out  her 
thankfulness  aloud  to  them.  And  there  was  no  one  to  dis- 
turb her.  .  .  . 

When  he  called  after  dinner,  Fred  was  struck  with  the 
delicacy  and  serenity  of  her  features.  As  she  stood  there  in 
her  simple  linen  dress,  which  she  wore  that  afternoon  for  the 
first  time,  she  looked  to  him  as  if  she  had  stepped  out  of  the 
past,  a  child  of  the  mist,  of  the  clouds,  an  Evangeline,  a 
daughter  of  the  Pilgrims.  A  line  began  to  buzz  in  his  ears, 
a  line  from  a  poem  he  had  once  learned  in  school,  "  She  was 
a  phantom  of  delight."  He  had  never  been  able  to  get  a  good 
picture  out  of  that  line.  He  had  it  now.  It  was  Elsie,  that 
the  poet  had  meant. 

"  We'll  go  into  the  country  to-day,"  he  whispered  to  her, 
and  he  could  see  her  thrill.  She  had  been  aching  to  go  out 
to  the  country.  She  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  to  take 
her  there.  He  had  divined  her  longings.  Her  eyes  sent 
forth  waves  of  silent  gratitude. 

But  the  afternoon  was  short.  By  the  time  they  reached  the 
Jersey  coast  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock.    They  strolled  for 


128  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

some  time  through  the  fields.  Crowds  of  people  were  stroll- 
ing, shouting,  singing.  There  were  couples  like  themselves. 
They  clung  to  each  other  and  spoke  in  whispers. 

It  was  growing  late.  Everybody  was  turning  back  toward 
the  city.  They  followed.  They  went  down  a  hill,  climbed 
another.  They  panted  for  breath,  but  not  from  tiredness. 
Near  the  edge  of  a  hill  that  was  sloping  right  into  the  Hud- 
son River  they  found  a  big  stone.  It  seemed  to  be  made  for 
two  to  sit  on.  And  many  had  sat  there  on  that  stone;  there 
were  still  fresh  tracks  on  the  wet  ground. 

They  sat  down  and  looked  out  upon  the  city  across  the 
Hudson  —  New  York.  In  the  water  steamers  were  gliding. 
Ferries  were  crossing  and  recrossing,  their  whistles  shrieking 
fear,  warning  through  the  air. 

The  sun  was  setting.  Its  glittering  red  beams  were  fall- 
ing across  the  houses  on  Riverside  Drive,  falling  into  the  wa- 
ter of  the  Hudson.  They  were  laying  the  beautiful  spring 
Sunday  to  rest.  In  the  morning  it  would  be  work  again  for 
Elsie,  and  to-morrow  at  the  same  hour  he  would  be  entering 
the  bakeshop  for  a  night's  labor. 

Fred  was  looking  straight  ahead.  He  was  listening.  He 
could  hear  Elsie  breathe.  The  wind  was  carrying  her  breath 
to  him,  the  fragrance  of  her.  ...  He  was  faint.  .  .  .  His 
whole  life  danced  before  his  eyes.  What  a  painful  mess  it 
had  been!  At  first  his  sick  brother,  then  his  mother  with 
doctors,  always  doctors,  dispensaries,  moaning.  .  .  .  And 
then  the  shop  which  had  robbed  him  of  his  nights.  For  the 
moment  he  forgot  the  girl  beside  him.  A  pity  seized  him, 
a  pity  for  himself.  He  could  weep  for  himself,  for  his  lost 
youth,  for  his  wasted  life.  .  .  .  What  was  the  meaning  of  it 
all?  To  what  end?  He  had  passed  a  cemetery  once.  Row 
after  row  of  little  mounds,  six  by  three,  with  the  grass  grow- 
ing green  over  them.     He  gave  a  deep  si^h. 


ELSIE  129 

"What  is  it,  Fred?" 

Even  before  she  caught  his  look  she  flushed.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  called  him  by  his  first  name.  .  .  .  She 
had  been  alarmed  by  his  sinister  face.  He  seemed  oblivious 
of  everything.     In  her  excitement  she  gripped  his  arm.  .  .  . 

Fred  was  awake.  ...  He  was  aware  of  her  presence  as 
he  had  never  been  before.  She  had  called  him  by  his  first 
name !  She  gazed  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  tender  solicitude. 
He  could  not  hold  all  this  happiness  alone;  his  heart  would 
burst. 

"  Elsie,"  he  whispered.  His  arms  wound  themselves  about 
her  waist,  her  shoulders.  He  buried  his  yearning  eyes  and 
face  on  her  breast. 

It  came  to  Gottfried  as  an  afterthought  as  he  stood  at 
his  bench  in  the  shop,  and  it  staggered  him.  It  would  be 
appalling  if  it  happened.  .  .  .  And  yet  it  very  likely  would 
happen,  was  sure  to  happen,  unless  he  took  action.  Elsie 
and  the  Gardners  were  making  all  arrangements  for  the  wed- 
ding. It  would  be  held  at  the  Gardner  home.  Elsie  had 
gone  to  Sunday-school  when  a  little  girl.  She  came  from  a 
New  England  town.  Most  everybody  belonged  to  a  church 
in  these  small  places.  They  would  be  sure  to  invite  a  min- 
ister to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony. 

It  was  three  o'clock.  Gottfried  worked  until  six.  He 
thought  of  quitting  an  hour  earlier  and  going  home  to  see 
Fred,  to  ask  him,  but  changed  his  mind.  He  must  not  act 
too  hastily  in  the  matter.  There  would  be  plenty  of  time  to 
see  Fred.  The  wedding  of  his  son  and  Elsie  would  not  take 
place  for  three  weeks  yet. 

As  he  worked  on  mechanically  he  took  stock  of  his  son. 
He  presumed  that  Fred  was  a  free-thinker  like  himself.  He 
had  never  heard  anything  to  the  contrary  from  Fred.     The 


130  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

boy  never  went  to  church,  never  showed  any  interest  for  mat- 
ters associated  with  religion.  He  was  indifferent  and  Gott- 
fried thought  it  best  to  leave  him  alone.  He  could  not  ex- 
pect Fred  to  be  an  active  or  even  rabid  church-hater.  The 
church  did  not  enter  into  his  son's  life  with  the  same  oppres- 
sive poignancy  it  did  in  his  own.  The  church  in  America 
altogether  was  so  unlike  the  church  of  the  Old  World.  Like 
everything  else  it  was  new  here.  It  had  none  of  the  Bastille- 
like cathedrals  and  monasteries  that  it  had  in  Germany. 
The  clergy  had  none  of  the  arrogance  here  that  it  had  in  the 
Old  World.  His  son's  neutrality  in  religious  matters  was 
on  the  whole  fairly  satisfying  to  Conrad. 

But  this  was  a  different  situation.  One  could  not  be  neu- 
tral in  such  a  matter.  It  would  be  disappointing,  it  would 
be,  indeed,  a  humiliation  if  the  Gardners  and  Elsie  could 
succeed  in  forcing  upon  his  son,  upon  the  Conrad  family,  a 
church  wedding,  a  wedding  ceremony  performed  by  a  min- 
ister and  all  the  other  religious  trimmings  that  went  with 
it.  .  .  . 

He  put  the  question  up  to  Fred  bluntly.  His  son  was  taken 
aback.  He  had  never  thought  of  how  the  ceremony  was  to 
be  performed.  It  was  a  matter  of  no  consequence  to  him. 
He  had  been  going  about  in  a  state  of  blissful  excitement 
in  anticipation  of  his  union  with  Elsie.  All  the  trappings 
pertaining  to  this  union  he  had  put  out  of  his  mind  as  things 
that  were  of  no  concern  to  him,  a  man.  Let  Elsie  and  the 
Gardners  bother  with  these ! 

Fred  now  listened  to  his  father  wide-eyed.  Gottfried  ex- 
pected his  son,  of  course,  to  go  to  the  city  hall  and  there  have 
a  civil  marriage  performed.  There  could  be  no  thought  of 
inviting  a  clergyman  and  dragging  the  church  into  the  matter. 

"I'll  talk  to  Elsie  and  see  what  arrangements  they  are 
making,"  Fred  replied.     He  knew  how  opposed  his  father 


ELSIE  131 

was  to  anything  that  savored  of  religion.  He  was  indiffer- 
ent to  such  things,  but  his  father  no  doubt  had  good  reason 
for  hating  the  church  and  its  emissaries.  And  he  would  not 
hurt  his  father  in  such  matters,  he  would  not! 

It  was  not  easy  to  broach  the  subject  to  Elsie.  She  was  as 
gay  as  a  lark.  She  had  given  up  her  work  and  was  at  home 
fitting  out  her  modest  trousseau.  She  was  consulting  con- 
stantly with  Mrs.  Gardner  and  her  uncle. 

When  Fred  found  a  favorable  moment  and  gathered  up  the 
courage  for  it,  he  approached  the  subject  of  the  wedding  cere- 
mony. She  —  they  did  not  expect  to  have  a  priest  per- 
form it? 

Elsie  looked  at  him  wide-eyed.  What  did  he  mean?  — 
she  did  not  understand  him.  The  ceremony  would  be  per- 
formed by  a  minister  —  how  else  ? 

She  was  worlds  removed  from  ideas  like  those  entertained 
by  Gottfried  Conrad.  Fred  saw  at  once  that  it  would  be 
hopeless  to  try  to  argue  her  out  of  a  church  ceremony.  He 
had  previously  talked  with  Mr.  Gardner  and  acquainted 
himself  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  small  New  England  town. 
A  civil  marriage  of  the  kind  that  was  performed  in  the  city 
hall  of  New  York  by  the  thousands  was  utterly  unknown  in 
these  small  towns.  Marriage  was  a  church,  family,  almost 
town,  affair.  Nothing  short  of  a  marriage  ceremony  per- 
formed by  a  minister  would  satisfy  Elsie.  It  was  a  case  of 
violating  his  father's  principles  or  throwing  Elsie  completely 
off  her  mental  balance.  With  her  bringing  up,  with  her 
small-town  prejudices,  a  civil  marriage  would  be  equivalent 
to  no  marriage  at  all.  She  would  never  consent  to  it.  It 
would  be  cruel  to  ask  her  to  consent  to  it. 

When  Fred  explained  the  situation  to  his  father,  Gott- 
fried turned  livid.  He  read  the  inevitable  in  his  son's  ex- 
planation.   He  had  no  thought  of  reproaching  Fred:  the 


132  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

boy  was  uncomfortable  enough  as  it  was.  It  was  an  un- 
fortunate combination  of  circumstances,  very  unfortunate. 

For  days  Gottfried  Conrad  hardly  spoke  to  his  son  or  to 
his  wife.  He  was  depressed  and  went  about  alone  with  his 
thoughts  as  if  in  a  dream.  Anna  was  grieved  to  see  her 
husband  take  things  to  heart  so.  But  she  was  happy  over 
Fred's  action,  she  was  fairly  thankful  to  him  for  what  he 
had  done,  for  not  letting  anything  mar  his  bride's  happi- 
ness. 

Mr.  Gardner  took  pains  to  give  the  wedding  as  little  of  a 
religious  tinge  as  possible.  He  had  requested  the  minister 
not  to  put  on  his  vestments  and  to  solemnize  the  marriage  in 
his  street  clothes.  The  latter  acquiesced.  But  when  the 
minister  began  to  read  the  long  ritual  of  the  solemnization  of 
matrimony  as  prescribed  by  the  Episcopal  church,  Gottfried 
Conrad  quailed  and  sought  to  hide  his  emotion  by  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

He  was  shamed,  he  was  humiliated.  His  son,  his  Lassalle, 
was  going  through  the  prescribed  church  formula,  answering 
the  prescribed  questions  which  the  minister  was  droning  out. 
Eh,  what  a  jester  fate  was !  He  had  thought  he  would  mold 
the  New  World  to  his  ideas,  he  would  mold  it  through  his 
son.  Instead  America  was  taking  him  in  hand.  It  was 
molding,  had  already  molded  his  son.  He  had  no  fault  to 
find  with  Fred.  He  was  a  fine  boy,  a  boy  to  be  proud  of. 
But  there  was  something  missing  in  him,  something  which 
he  feared  would  prevent  his  boy  from  becoming  the  Lassalle 
which  he  had  pictured  him  in  his  mind. 

He  glanced  at  the  minister.  He  was  so  different  from  the 
stout-bodied,  aggressive  priests  to  which  Gottfried  Conrad 
was  accustomed  in  the  Old  World.  The  clergyman  was 
spare.  His  pale  features  plainly  betrayed  the  worry  of  mak- 
ing a  living,  Gottfried  thought.     His  hair  was  gray  prema- 


ELSIE  133 

turely.  Gottfried  had  no  ill  feeling  against  the  man  per- 
sonally. By  no  stretch  of  the  imagination  could  the  sub- 
dued individual  be  construed  into  a  cunning  and  designing 
Machiavelli  plotting  the  enslavement  of  the  human  race  to 
the  rule  of  priestcraft. 

"  Nevertheless,"  Gottfried  mused,  "  he  stands  for  the  same 
thing.  The  shell  is  different,  but  the  essence  is  the  same. 
Clergy  is  clergy  everywhere.     Its  aims  are  the  same." 

The  ceremony  was  over.  Mr.  Gardner  asked  the  minister 
to  stay  for  the  wedding  supper,  but  the  clergyman  had  sensed 
the  hostile  atmosphere  and,  pleading  that  he  was  busy,  he  left 
hastily. 

In  spite  of  his  efforts  not  to  appear  sulky  at  the  supper 
table,  Gottfried  Conrad  could  not  entirely  suppress  his  feel- 
ings. Gloom  was  written  on  his  face.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
a  stranger  there.  He  sat  there  not  participating  in  the  joy 
of  the  occasion,  but  as  a  critic.  He  was  examining  every 
one,  his  son,  his  daughter-in-law.  He  was  not  angry  with 
Fred.  The  boy  could  not  be  blamed.  And  he  liked  Elsie 
—  liked  her  very  much.  Besides,  he  believed  in  perfect  free- 
dom in  such  cases.  He  had  himself  married  the  girl  of  his 
choice,  regardless  of  everything.  It  was  his  choice  in  mar- 
riage that  had  taken  him  to  America.  No,  he  had  nothing 
against  Fred,  or  Elsie.  But —  The  House  of  Conrad  was 
crumpling.  For  a  time,  for  a  few  brief  months,  since  that 
Sunday  when  Fred  made  his  celebrated  speech  in  the  union, 
the  House  of  Conrad  seemed  to  him  to  be  in  the  ascendency. 
He  could  see  it  rising,  faintly  hovering  in  the  gray,  misty  dis- 
tance. It  cheered  him,  it  warmed  his  heart.  It  was  begin- 
ning to  gain  in  clearness,  this  coveted  house  of  his.  It 
seemed  to  be  nearing.  Now  —  the  House  of  Conrad  was  fast 
receding  in  the  distance,  becoming  indistinguishable.  Amer- 
ica was  reducing  everything  to  a  dead  level.     His  boy  was  be- 


134  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

ing  reduced,  devitalized  by  his  surroundings.  Elsie  would 
help  reduce  him  —  she  would  do  it  lovingly.  And  Gardner 
would  help  reduce  him.  He  would  do  it  by  teaching  the  boy 
prudence,  American  prudence.  The  old  man  was  sincere,  no 
doubt.  He  was  learned  and  a  good  specimen  of  an  Ameri- 
can. But  he  was  poor  company  for  his  son,  if  his  boy,  his 
Lassalle,  was  to  be  the  leader  of  the  proletariat  he  had  hoped 
he  would  be.  .  .  . 

The  future  looked  gray,  misty.  Gottfried  Conrad  was 
no  longer  sure  of  his  dreams.  He  was  not  sure  of  himself. 
Late  that  evening  as  Fred  and  Elsie  were  bidding  him  good- 
night before  starting  for  their  own  little  flat,  Gottfried  pulled 
his  son  over  to  one  side,  took  him  in  his  arms,  gazed  deep  into 
his  eyes  for  some  moments  and  kissed  him,  with  the  tears 
coursing  down  his  cheeks. 


BOOK  II 
FRED  CONRAD 


CHAPTER  X 

FRED   SPEAKS  HIS   MIND 

THE  yawn  spread  from  one  of  the  reporters  to  the  others 
and  the  boredom  in  the  eyes  of  the  five  "  labor  edi- 
tors "  of  Chicago's  five  morning  newspapers  gave  way  to  a 
glint  of  amusement  at  their  own  defection.  It  was  a  tiresome 
business,  this  sitting  through  an  entire  July  afternoon  in  a 
stuffy  hall,  listening  to  speeches  and  grievances  that  had 
been  aired  a  dozen  times  before.  Moreover,  the  import  of 
these  grievances  seemed  no  different  from  what  these  news- 
papermen were  accustomed  to  hear  day  in  and  day  out  at  la- 
bor meetings  and  assemblies  which  they  had  been  attending 
for  years. 

But  sit  through  the  meeting  the  reporters  must,  that  day 
especially.  There  were  several  reasons  for  it.  First,  it  was 
Saturday.  News  was  scarce  and  there  was  a  big  paper  on 
Sunday.  They  would  have  to  let  their  copy  run  full.  Sec- 
ond, the  strike  of  the  bakers  was  nearing  the  close  of  its  third 
week.  There  were  a  couple  of  first-page  strike  stories  immed- 
iately after  the  tie-up  was  declared.  Then  the  strike  news 
was  relegated  to  the  inside  pages.  It  was  about  time  now  for 
another  first-page  story. 

To  save  their  ruffled  dignity  after  that  round-robin  yawn, 
the  newspapermen  quickly  straightened  out  in  their  chairs, 
relit  their  old  cigars,  or  took  out  fresh  ones,  and  sat  alert. 

In  spite  of  the  three  weeks  which  the  strike  of  the  bakers 
had  lasted;  in  spite,  too,  of  the  fact  that  there  was  "  a  piece 
in  the  paper  "  about  it  every  day,  the  Chicago  public  had  no 
clear  notion  of  what  the  strikers  wanted.     The  first  day  the 

137 


138  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

men  walked  out  the  newspapers  said  something  about  higher 
wages,  shorter  hours  and  better  conditions.  Thereafter,  how- 
ever, the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  strike  concerned  them- 
selves almost  exclusively  with  "  law  and  order."  The  stories 
in  the  papers  told  either  of  "  violence  "  on  the  part  of  the 
strikers,  or  else  gave  long  accounts  of  the  police  activities  in 
connection  with  the  strike,  how  splendidly  order  was  main- 
tained by  Captain  So-and-So,  and  the  like.  That  the  strikers 
were  citizens  and  voters;  that  they  paid  taxes,  supported 
schools,  churches;  that  they  were  a  part  of  the  American 
people  toward  whom  the  papers  ordinarily  exhibited  great 
respect,  was  lost  sight  of  in  most  of  the  strike  stories.  In 
reading  the  newspaper  accounts  about  the  bakers  one  some- 
how got  the  impression  that  these  men,  most  of  whom  were 
middle-aged,  nearly  all  of  whom  were  fathers,  and  many  of 
whom  were  grandfathers,  were  a  lot  of  irresponsible  boys, 
street-corner  loafers  out  for  mischief,  and  were  it  not  for  the 
prudence,  patience  and  vigilance  of  the  police,  heaven  only 
knows  what  mischief  these  men  would  do  to  the  public  and  the 
city. 

Had  the  strike  of  the  bakers  taken  place  a  few  years  later 
the  sociologists  and  reformers  of  that  day  would  have  dug 
out  its  significance  and  dragged  it  into  the  newspapers.  At 
that  early  date,  however  —  the  middle  of  the  Nineties  of  the 
past  century  —  the  sociologist  and  reformer  of  a  later  day 
were  still  unknown  and  the  newspapers  and  the  public  saw 
only  the  exterior  manifestations  of  the  strike,  not  the  deep- 
rooted  causes  of  the  dissatisfaction  among  the  workers. 

Higher  wages  and  a  decrease  in  the  working  hours  were 
not  the  main  issues.  What  the  men  assailed  most  bitterly 
was  an  institution  —  the  underground  bakeshop.  The  bak- 
ing industry  in  Chicago  and  in  every  large  city  in  the  country 
was  at  that  time  located  underground,  in  cellars.     Because 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  139 

of  the  absence  of  sunshine  and  fresh  air,  because  of  the  per- 
petual dampness,  filth  and  mold,  consumption  and  various 
other  bronchial  diseases  were  making  heavy  inroads  among 
the  workmen  in  the  baking  industry.  The  strike  of  the  bakers 
was  the  first  of  a  long  series  of  struggles  which  brought  about 
the  abolition  of  many  of  the  basement  bakeries  and  the  im- 
provement of  others. 

The  reporters,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  various  speak- 
ers for  two  hours,  were  beginning  to  lose  heart.  The  set- 
ting for  a  big  story  certainly  was  there.  Five  thousand  men 
crowded  into  a  hall  that  had  a  normal  capacity  for  only  half 
that  number.  With  all  this,  however,  the  prospects  for  a 
first-page  story  were  slim  because  nothing  had  been  done  so 
far,  no  startling  action  had  been  taken  by  the  union. 

"  Gab  and  more  gab,"  one  of  the  journalists,  a  middle-aged 
man,  remarked  c}Tiically  to  his  neighbor.  At  that  very  mo- 
ment, however,  a  man  who  was  a  stranger  to  the  reporters 
entered  through  a  side  door  and,  led  by  the  president  of  the 
Bakers'  Union,  ascended  the  platform.  The  indifference  of 
the  newspapermen,  the  relaxed,  lazy  feeling  vanished.  The 
big  story  they  had  been  aching  for  all  that  afternoon  had 
arrived;  they  sensed  it.  They  were  all  attention  —  eye,  ear, 
memory,  pencil.  They  were  not  losing  a  moment.  They 
were  studying  this  newcomer  at  long  range,  making  a  mental 
picture  of  his  wiry  frame,  of  his  clear  complexion,  clean-cut 
features.  They  were  appraising  his  probable  standing  in  the 
labor  movement. 

The  newcomer  on  the  platform  was  indeed  a  curious  mix- 
ture. He  was  seemingly  a  workingman.  Yet  a  slight  change 
in  his  clothes  could  have  made  him  look  anything  but  a 
workingman.  He  was  about  thirty  or  under,  but  the  gaze  in 
his  blue  eyes  was  sedate,  settled.  They  had  not  heard  his 
voice,  but  his  manner,  his  gestures  were  not  of  the  spell- 


140  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

binder.  There  was  nothing  of  the  visionary  about  him.  He 
was  a  simple,  everyday  sort  of  man,  free  even  from  the  few 
poses  and  airs  which  some  of  the  more  important  labor 
leaders  were  assuming. 

The  stranger  was  introduced  by  the  chairman  of  the 
meeting  as  "  Organizer  Fred  Conrad  from  New  York.'* 
Conrad,  he  explained,  had  been  in  Chicago  for  nearly  a  week. 
The  organizer  from  New  York  and  a  committee  from  the 
union  had  been  conducting  an  investigation,  the  results  of 
which  Brother  Conrad  would  now  outline. 

Fred  Conrad  came  forward  and  laid  some  papers  on  the 
table. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  make  a  speech  to  you  this  afternoon," 
he  began  without  preliminaries.  "  The  day  is  too  hot  —  too 
hot  even  for  bakers.  I  will  merely  report  to  you  what  the 
committee  to  which  I  had  the  pleasure  to  belong,  and  which 
has  chosen  me  as  spokesman,  has  accomplished  in  the  past 
week.  I  shall  tell  you  what  we  intend  to  do  before  we  give 
up  this,  struggle.  .  .  ." 

"  We  don't  give  up,  we  don't,  by  God,  Brother  Conrad  — " 
some  one  in  the  hall  shouted.  Conrad  lifted  his  hand  warn- 
ingly. 

"  Let  me  go  on.  Brother,"  he  continued  coolly,  "  and  make 
the  situation  clear  to  you.  You  can  criticize  me  afterward. 
We  may  have  to  give  up  this  fight.  We  depend  upon  wages 
for  a  living.  We  may  not  be  able  to  hold  out  against  our  em- 
ployers much  longer.  There  is  a  limit  beyond  which  many  of 
us  may  not  be  able  to  go.  There  are  little  children  to  be  con- 
sidered —  we  cannot  starve  them.  I  say,  therefore,  that  we 
may  have  to  give  up  this  struggle.  But  before  we  give  up 
we  shall  do  one  more  thing:  we  shall  state  our  case  to  the 
public  fully  and  clearly  and  we  shall  see  whether  the  public 
approves  our  fight  or  sides  with  our  employers. 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  141 

"  We  have  drawn  up  here  a  statement  of  grievances.  It  is 
a  statement  of  evidence  against  the  bakeshops  of  this  city.  It 
makes  clear  our  position.  Our  fight  is  not  merely  for  a  few 
more  pennies  in  wages,  though  these  are  needed  badly  enough. 
It  is  a  fight  for  life,  for  health.  We  are  arrayed  against  dis- 
ease and  death.  The  cellar  bakeshops  of  Chicago  are  death 
houses  for  the  men  who  work  in  them.  They  are  filthy,  reek- 
ing places.  The  walls  are  slimy  from  perpetual  moisture  and 
from  lack  of  sunshine.  They  are  infested  with  vermin, 
roaches  and  rats.     They  are  hotbeds  of  disease. 

"  It  is  our  view  that  this  strike  should  not  be  your  fight 
alone.  It  should  be  the  public's  fight.  For  the  public  suf- 
fers from  these  horrible  conditions  as  well  as  you,  if  not  as 
much  as  you.  The  basement  bakeries  give  you  sickness  and 
condemn  you  to  an  untimely  death.  But  we  live  in  a  world 
of  mutual  progress  and  mutual  deterioration.  Death  stalks 
in  the  bakeries  of  Chicago  not  alone  for  you  but  for  the  public 
as  well,  for  it  is  with  your  sick  frames,  with  your  consumptive 
sweat,  that  you  bake  the  public's  bread. 

"  We  have  decided,  therefore,  to  let  the  public  be  the  arbiter 
of  tliis  strike.  We  are  going  to  let  the  public  know  of  the 
contaminating,  unspeakable  conditions  under  which  its  bread 
is  baked  and  we  shall  let  the  public  decide  whether  the  baking 
industry  should  be  lifted  out  of  its  underground  pestholes  or 
whether  it  should  stay  there. 

"  We  have  tabulated  data  and  statistics  which  speak  for 
themselves.  We  have  figures  showing  the  frightfully  high 
percentage  of  consumptives  among  you  men.  We  have  figures 
showing  how  abnormally  high  among  you  is  the  percentage  of 
other  diseases  that  are  directly  due  to  your  being  locked  up 
under  ground  year  after  year,  without  sunlight,  without  air, 
without  ventilation.  We  have  a  list  of  neglects  and  offenses 
by  employers  in  the  way  of  sanitation,  neglects  which  make  the 


142  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

eating  of  bread  revolting  to  those  who  know  how  it  is  pro- 
duced. 

"  These  documents,  the  results  of  our  investigations,  we 
shall,  with  your  approval,  submit  to  the  health  authorities  of 
this  city  and  state.  Let  the  Health  Department  make  an  in- 
vestigation and  check  up  on  us.  Let  the  newspapers  of  this 
city  inquire  and  see  whether  we  are  speaking  the  truth. 

"  If  the  public  is  willing  that  we  should  return  to  the  old 
conditions  of  work,  if  it  is  willing  to  eat  the  bread  baked 
under  such  conditions,  we  will  submit  to  the  verdict  of  the 
public  and  give  up  this  fight  without  further  starving  our 
wives  and  children." 

Fred  had  spoken  without  flourishes,  though  he  had  spoken 
with  clearness  and  effectiveness.  The  crowd  waited  for  a 
final  oratorical  round-up  —  the  ending  of  the  speech  was  so 
abrupt.  But  when  it  saw  Conrad  returning  to  his  seat,  it 
burst  out  in  belated  and  thunderous  applause. 

The  reporters  leaped  to  the  platform  before  Fred  had 
gained  his  chair.  From  that  moment  the  strike  had  become 
the  affair  of  the  city  and  of  the  newspapers  —  and  it  was 
won.  It  had  been  a  much  duller  day  for  news  than  even  the 
reporters  had  anticipated,  and  in  every  case  word  had  come 
from  the  managing  editor  that  the  story  about  the  conditions 
prevailing  in  Chicago's  bakeshops  be  played  to  the  limit. 
And  it  was  played.  It  was  too  late  to  find  the  commissioner 
of  health  at  the  city  hall,  so  he  was  rung  up  at  his  home.  He 
was  not  in :  he  had  gone  out  to  his  country  club  for  the  week- 
end. He  was  rung  up  there  and  the  gist  of  the  charges  made 
by  the  "  New  York  Organizer  "  against  the  cellar  bakeshops 
was  read  to  him  over  the  telephone.  Would  he  take 
action  ? 

The  commissioner  knew  by  the  voice  over  the  wire  that  an 
enthusiastically  affirmative  reply  was  expected,  and  he  an- 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  143 

swered  accordingly.  Action  ?  of  course  he  would  take  action. 
Why,  he  had  been  planning  for  some  weeks  now  to  look  into 
these  very  conditions.  The  pressure  of  other  business  alone 
had  kept  him  from  ordering  just  such  an  investigation.  He 
would  issue  directions  at  once  for  a  thorough  clean  up.  It 
was  very  commendable  of  the  union  to  call  his  attention  to 
these  abuses, 

"  Fine,  fine,"  said  the  editor  when  the  reporter  gave  him 
the  gist  of  the  health  commissioner's  statement.  "  Now  get 
the  mayor." 

The  mayor  was  apprised  of  the  union  charges  and  of  the 
health  commissioner's  approval  of  the  same.  What  did  His 
Honor  have  to  say?  "  What  did  he  have  to  say?  "  Why, 
His  Honor,  the  Mayor,  was  for  a  most  thorough  investigation, 
most  thorough.  He  would  give  the  health  commissioner  every 
help  possible.  He  would  issue  orders  to  all  related  city  de- 
partments to  cooperate  with  the  health  commissioner.  Such 
conditions  were  a  disgrace  to  the  city  and  must  be  abolished 
at  once.  The  city's  bread  must  be  baked  under  clean,  health- 
ful conditions. 

When  Chicago  citizens  opened  their  Sunday  papers  the  next 
morning  the  headline  "  Death  Stalks  in  City's  Bakeshops  " 
smote  them  in  the  face.  It  stood  out  in  the  boldest,  blackest 
type  the  papers  could  command.  The  figures  of  consump- 
tion among  bakers  and  the  statements  of  the  commissioner  of 
health  and  of  the  mayor  were  boxed  at  the  top  of  the  page. 
After  perusing  these  headlines  the  toast  on  the  breakfast  table 
assumed  an  offensive  appearance.  The  baker  bosses  scurried 
about  from  one  place  to  another  in  panic.  If  they  could  only 
silence  the  union  leaders,  silence  the  papers!  They  would 
give  in  to  all  the  demands  of  the  strikers.  ...  In  the  mean- 
time they  had  ordered  a  hasty  but  thorough  clean-up  of  the 
shops.     Some  were  running  for  plumbers.    The  city  inspect- 


144  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

ors  must  not  be  allowed  to  see  the  horrible  sanitation  of  their 
places;  it  would  be  ruin. 

The  New  York  newspapers  were  greatly  interested  in  Fred 
Conrad's  arraignment  of  the  underground  bakeshops  of  Chi- 
cago. The  story  came  over  the  wires  too  late  to  make  exten- 
sive inquiries  into  the  conditions  under  which  bread  was 
baked  in  New  York.  Local  labor  leaders  and  the  city 
authorities  were  interviewed,  however,  and  the  brief  state- 
ments obtained  from  them  were  not  at  all  reassuring.  It  was 
likely,  the  newspapers  hinted,  that  New  York  could  show  in 
its  bread-making  shops  conditions  not  dissimilar  to  those 
that  startled  Chicago. 

Heinrich  Kolb,  the  editor  of  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung,  was  gray 
and  ailing.  Age  was  fastening  its  grip  upon  him  rapidly 
and  prematurely.  He  was  barely  fifty-five  years  old,  yet  he 
frequently  failed  to  appear  at  his  office  for  two  or  three  days 
at  a  time,  sending  over  his  editorials  by  boy.  Late  that  Sat- 
urday afternoon,  however,  he  dropped  into  the  office  and 
stayed  for  the  evening.  As  he  was  fingering  a  batch  of  proofs 
he  ran  across  the  name  "  Conrad  "  in  a  headline.  His  in- 
terest was  aroused  and  he  read  the  story. 

He  was  moved  to  tears.  For  the  moment  he  had  forgotten 
that  it  was  news  and  that  he  was  an  editor.  It  seemed  a 
personal  matter  to  him.  Freddy,  the  son  of  his  lifelong  friend 
Gottfried,  the  little  boy  whose  "  christening  "  he  had  attended 
at  the  dawn  of  their  career  in  the  New  World,  Freddy,  to 
whom  he  always  acted  and  felt  like  an  uncle,  that  Freddy  had 
now  made  his  voice  heard  from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the 
other.  His  instinct  as  an  editor  told  him  that  the  story  of 
the  startling  conditions  prevailing  in  Chicago  bakeshops 
would  be  on  the  first  page  of  every  newspaper  in  the  country 
the  next  morning.     A   glow  of  warmth   transfused   itself 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  145 

through  Kolb's  veins.  He  walked  over  to  where  his  news 
editor,  a  fat,  phlegmatic  Mecklenburger,  sat  and  said: 

"  Put  every  word  of  the  Conrad  story  on  the  first  page;  it 
is  the  biggest  labor  story  of  recent  years." 

And  then  he  returned  to  the  further  end  of  the  room  where 
his  own  desk  stood,  screened  from  view  by  several  bookcases. 
He  settled  in  his  chair  and  began  to  read  the  story  once  more. 
And  as  he  read  a  peculiar  feeling  came  over  him.  The  speech 
was  typical  of  Fred  Conrad.  He  had  been  watching  the 
boy's  rise  in  the  bakers'  union  and  later  in  the  labor  move- 
ment for  nearly  ten  years.  The  speech  had  the  breath  of 
humanity,  but  all  reference  to  socialism  had  been  carefully 
eliminated  from  it.  There  was  not  a  stock  socialist  phrase 
in  it.  Fred  had  not  questioned  the  right  of  private  property, 
of  rent,  profit,  interest. 

Kolb  had  never  married  and  he  clung  to  the  friendships  of 
his  youth  with  touching  tenderness.  His  thoughts  now  re- 
verted to  Gottfried  Conrad.  His  lifelong  friend  and  comrade 
in  arms  had  drawn  into  himself  of  late.  Gottfried  was  sorely 
grieved  by  his  son's  obstinate  refusal  to  join  him  in  socialist 
councils.  Kolb  now  realized  the  keenness  of  the  father's 
grief.  Fred  was  cut  out  for  leadership,  but  the  socialist  move- 
ment would  probably  never  count  him  as  an  active  pro- 
pagandist of  its  theories.  He  mused  over  the  irony  of  life. 
The  dreams  and  ideals  for  which  the  fathers  went  into  exile, 
faced  prison  and  even  death,  these  ideals  were  indifferently 
put  aside  by  their  Americanized  children.  The  socialist 
movement  was  not  gaining  adherents  among  the  American- 
bom  workers.  And  yet  many  of  these  labor  leaders  like  Fred 
Conrad  were  faithful  and  big-hearted  men.  How  account  for 
their  stubborn  indifference  to  the  international  movement  of 
the  proletariat  ? 


146  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

He  perused  Fred's  speech  for  a  third  time.  There  was 
humanity  in  every  word  he  had  spoken.  It  was  a  working- 
class  document  of  first  magnitude,  regardless  of  the  fact  that 
it  did  not  seemingly  subscribe  to  the  socialist  ritual.  It  was 
a  speech  the  socialists  should  recognize.  It  was  an  achieve- 
ment that  ought  to  warm^  the  heart  of  old  Gottfried. 

Kolb  wiped  his  spectacles  and  took  pen  and  paper.  There 
was  still  time  to  get  an  editorial  in  the  paper.  He  put  down 
the  caption  "  Fred  Speaks  His  Mind."  And  the  half  column 
editorial  that  followed  had  a  reminiscent  touch  and  a  personal 
warmth  that  was  not  at  all  in  accord  with  Kolb's  otherwise 
rigid  and  uncompromising  editorial  judgment. 

He  eulogized  Fred  Conrad,  called  him  a  "  son  of  the 
masses  "  and  a  "  tribune  of  the  proletariat."  His  Chicago 
speech,  he  said,  would  stand  out  as  a  masterpiece  of  working- 
class  thought  and  sentiment.  Then  he  went  over  to  Fred's 
father,  "  our  old  and  faithful  Comrade,  Gottfried  Conrad," 
and  congratulated  him  upon  his  son.  He  expressed  the  fer- 
vent wish  that  Gottfried's  boy  (he  used  the  familiar  German 
"  Junge  ")  might  rise  to  yet  greater  heights  as  a  leader  of  the 
working  class,  that  he  might  rival  the  fame  of  the  great  cham- 
pion of  the  proletariat  after  whom  he  was  named  —  Ferdi- 
nand Lassalle. 

The  paper  trembled  in  Gottfried's  hands  as  he  read  the 
account  of  the  storm  raised  by  his  son's  activity  in  behalf  of 
the  striking  bakers  in  Chicago.  He  doubted  his  vision. 
What  he  saw  in  the  paper  was  too  much  like  the  dream  he 
had  been  dreaming  all  his  life.  In  his  flights  of  fancy  he  had 
often  in  his  younger  days  seen  his  son,  his  Lassalle,  towering 
as  the  great  tribune  of  the  American  proletariat.  But  so  many 
of  his  dreams  had  been  wrecked  by  the  New  World;  he  must 
not  let  an  illusion  get  the  best  of  him  now.     His  misty  gaze 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  147 

clung  to  the  paper  desperately,  tragically.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  if  he  once  lifted  his  eyes  the  contents  of  the  page  would 
change,  the  deep,  dark  letters  spelling  his  son's  name  would 
vanish,  his  dream  would  burst  like  a  bubble.  And  the 
illusion  was  so  sweet,  he  wanted  to  hang  on  to  it  a  little 
longer. 

But  it  was  no  dream.  His  son's  name  was  staring  at  him 
not  only  from  the  headlines  of  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung  but  from 
numerous  places  in  the  three  and  a  half  columns  which  the 
story  occupied.  One  paragraph,  in  particular,  held  his  gaze. 
It  read: 

"  Fred  Conrad's  speech  has  shaken  the  capitalist  class  of 
America  out  of  its  complacency.  His  words  have  been  tele- 
graphed from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other  and  the 
authorities,  not  alone  of  Chicago,  but  of  every  large  city, 
have  announced  that  they  would  investigate  the  bakeshops  to 
make  sure  that  such  conditions  as  exist  in  some  parts  of  Chi- 
cago are  not  duplicated  in  their  cities.  In  laying  the  strike 
of  the  bakers  squarely  at  the  door  of  the  public  and  of  the 
authorities,  Fred  Conrad  has  with  one  stroke  won  for  the 
union  the  fight  for  healthful  and  humane  working  conditions 
which  the  organization  has  been  waging  unsuccessfully  for 
years." 

The  press  of  the  entire  country  was  talking  about  his  son. 
The  capitalist  press  was  compelled  by  his  son's  resourceful- 
ness and  simple  eloquence  to  take  note  of  the  grievances  of 
the  workers  and  of  the  heartlessness  and  brutality  and  greed 
of  the  baker  bosses.     The  dear  boy.  .  .  . 

Gottfried's  eyes  suddenly  blazed.  This  was  his  opportun- 
ity —  there  was  no  mistake  about  it.  He  would  prevail  upon 
his  son  this  time.  Fred  could  not  consistently  stay  out  of  the 
socialist  movement  any  longer.  His  Chicago  triumph  was 
only  a  beginning.     He  would  be  a  leader  of  great  masses  of 


148  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

workmen  henceforth.  He  must  have  a  "  Richtung,"  a  goal 
to  which  to  lead  the  working  class. 

He  wiped  the  haze  from  his  eyes  and  looked  once  more 
at  the  paper.  Then  he  looked  toward  the  kitchen.  Anna 
was  busy  with  their  Sunday  dinner.  He  was  about  to  call 
her,  but  refrained.  He  did  not  see  things  quite  clearly  yet. 
He  was  thinking  once  more. 

Gottfried's  relations  to  his  wife  had  undergone  marked 
changes  since  Fred  had  married  and  left  them  eight  years 
back.  He  had  grown  more  tender  toward  Anna  and  was  not 
averse  to  showing  it.  They  were  companions  now.  They 
were  nearer  to  each  other  than  they  had  ever  been.  They  had 
so  many  things  to  talk  about.  Gottfried  was  shoving  much 
of  his  work  in  the  socialist  movement  on  to  the  shoulders  of 
younger  men  and  was  spending  his  evenings  at  home  more 
often  now.  He  and  Anna  would  stroll  down  to  the  river  or 
to  the  park  on  a  warm  summer  night.  In  the  winter  they 
would  often  sit  side  by  side  in  front  of  the  kitchen  stove  and 
analyze  their  ailments  or  talk  and  think  of  the  past. 

He  recalled  the  eight  years  since  Fred  had  married.  On 
several  occasions  father  and  son  had  been  estranged  from 
each  other  for  months  at  a  time  because  of  disagreements  over 
socialism.  Anna  worried  herself  sick  at  such  times.  She 
longed  to  see  Fred  and  his  children.  Fred,  too,  felt  keenly 
his  father's  displeasure.  But  these  estrangements  did  not 
bring  him  nearer  to  his  father's  political  faith. 

For  it  was  not  ignorance  of  the  socialist  theories,  nor 
motives  of  fear  or  gain  that  kept  Fred  from  joining  his  father 
in  the  councils  of  socialism.  It  was  something  else,  some- 
thing that  was  bred  in  the  blood,  something  that  had  to  do 
with  America,  a  "  something  "  that  was  not  open  to  argument. 

As  a  child  Fred  had  seen  socialism  preached  in  the  German 
language.     It  was  argued  in  German  beer  halls  and  at  Ger- 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  149 

man  picnics.  It  was  defended  in  a  German  newspaper. 
Every  meeting  of  socialists  was  a  meeting  of  Germans,  of  for- 
eigners. His  father's  political  associates  were  foreigners. 
When  a  socialist  meeting  was  broken  up  it  was  American 
policemen  who  broke  it  up  and  they  jeered  and  taunted 
the  "  Dutchmen  *'  and  the  "  foreigners."  The  police  had  the 
better  of  the  situation  always  and  the  socialists  invariably 
fled  from  the  hall.  There  was  no  dignity  in  their  flight. 
Since  childhood  the  conviction  had  grown  upon  Fred  that,  like 
his  father,  socialism  was  born  abroad  and  came  to  America 
too  late  to  acclimatize  itself  to  American  surroundings.  Like 
his  father's  accent,  socialism  was  not  a  thing  desirable  of  cul- 
tivation by  the  American-born,  Fred  felt  vaguely  but  early  in 
his  life,  and  such  early  feelings  can  never  be  quite  eradicated. 

Later  he  had  learned  from  books  and  pamphlets  that  social- 
ism was  international,  that  socialist  teachings  were  as  applic- 
able to  America  as  they  were  to  England  or  Germany.  And 
he  believed  it,  too.  Nevertheless  he  could  not  work  up  en- 
thusiasm for  the  socialist  movement.  He  could  understand 
it,  respect  it,  just  as  he  understood  and  respected  his  father, 
but  he  could  not  make  it  a  part  of  himself  or  become  a  part 
of  it  any  more  than  he  could  become  his  father  or  his  father 
him.  Socialism  had  gone  hand  in  hand  with  his  father's 
foreign  accent  and  un-American  ways  all  through  his  child- 
hood and  had  caused  him  much  pain  and  humiliation.  It 
still  cast  a  gloom  over  him  to  recall  those  days  when  he  was 
lonely  and  depressed  and  jeered  at  because  his  father  was 
"  different "  and  never  went  to  church  or  Sunday-school. 
His  impressions  of  socialism  and  the  chilling  memories  of 
those  days  had  become  as  one  to  him. 

Gottfried  had  gradually  come  to  see  these  almost  physical 
barriers  which  stood  between  him  and  his  son.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  realize  that  it  was  not  intellect  but  feeling  that 


150  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

was  swaying  Fred  in  his  attitude  toward  the  socialist  cause. 
It  was  tragic  to  see  his  dreams  shattered,  but  it  was  an  even 
greater  tragedy  for  his  son.  Fred  had  in  him  the  making  of 
a  great  leader.  But  a  great  leader  must  have  a  great  cause 
to  promote,  and  what  was  the  improvement  of  the  lot  of  five 
thousand  bakers  in  comparison  with  the  reshaping  of  society 
and  the  recasting  of  civilization  which  socialism  contem- 
plated ! 

He  had  been  turning  the  pages  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
heading,  "  Fred  Speaks  His  Mind."  He  read  the  half-col- 
umn editorial  without  moving  an  eyelash.  He  quaffed  it 
without  a  let-up,  as  a  thirsty  man  drains  a  glass  of  water, 
without  stopping  to  breathe.  Kolb's  words  of  praise  for  his 
son,  and  of  recognition  for  him,  the  boy's  father,  left  Gott- 
fried prostrate  for  the  moment.  That  was  too  much  happi- 
ness at  one  time. 

"  Anna!  "  he  called  with  subdued  excitement.  "  Anna!  " 
He  was  holding  the  paper  in  his  hand  with  great  care  now, 
as  if  it  were  something  very  precious  and  fragile. 

"  See,"  he  pointed  the  place  out  to  his  wife,  "  they  are 
writing  about  our  Freddy  —  nice!  " 

He  had  frequent  recourse  to  his  handkerchief  as  he  read 
the  editorial  to  her,  clearing  his  throat  and  wiping  his  gray 
mustache  constantly.  He  read  Fred's  speech  to  her,  as  much 
of  it  as  the  paper  gave.  He  read  it  dramatically,  as  if  he  were 
making  the  speech,  delivering  it  before  an  audience.  Anna 
was  in  tears. 

"  I  say,"  Gottfried  roused  himself  from  his  reveries,  "  may- 
be you  could  hurry  with  the  dinner,  Anna,  and  we  go  to  see 
the  children.     They  are  alone  now  since  Fred  is  in  Chicago." 

Anna's  eyes  glowed  with  happiness.  To  visit  her  grand- 
children was  the  one  great  delight  of  her  ebbing  life.  But  of 
late  these  visits  had  become  infrequent.    Elsie  had  tired  of  the 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  151 

noise  and  surroundings  of  the  East  Side  and  Fred  had  found 
a  small  house  in  the  Bronx  which  had  a  porch  and  a  garden. 
Since  they  had  moved  there  it  was  not  easy  for  Anna,  whose 
strength  was  very  limited,  to  visit  her  grandchildren  often. 
She  could  not  go  by  herself  and  it  was  not  always  possible  to 
prevail  on  Gottfried  to  go  with  her.  There  were  times 
when  his  son  would  appear  to  Gottfried  as  an  apostate,  a 
renegade  to  his,  Gottfried's,  faith  in  the  destiny  of  man.  At 
such  times  Anna  would  swallow  every  reference  to  her  son 
or  to  their  grandchildren  with  a  stifled  sob. 

She  was  all  excitement  now.  What  luck!^  Everything 
she  had  to-day  was  of  the  best  and  was  cooking  splendidly. 
Dinner  would  be  ready  in  a  twinkling. 

While  Anna  was  speeding  things  up  in  the  kitchen,  Gott- 
fried had  gone  down  into  the  street  and  was  making  the 
rounds  of  the  stands  and  stores.  He  never  went  to  his  grand- 
children empty-handed.  That  day  he  was  especially  profuse 
in  his  purchases. 

Their  grandchildren  descried  Gottfried  and  Anna  a  block 
away  and  ran  to  meet  them.  Elsie,  who  was  in  the  dining- 
room  clearing  away  her  dinner  dishes  from  the  table,  heard  the 
children's  jubilant  cries  and  stepped  into  the  front  room  just 
in  time  to  see  Gottfried  come  up  the  stairs  of  the  porch 
heavily  laden  with  baskets  and  bundles.  Anna  followed  him, 
flushed  and  smiling. 

It  was  a  joyous  day.  The  house  was  at  once  enlivened. 
Ruth,  Fred's  oldest  child,  now  in  her  seventh  year,  clambered 
up  on  one  of  Gottfried's  knees,  and  Robert,  who  was  two 
years  younger  than  his  sister,  on  the  other.  Just  as  Gott- 
friend's  presents  had  been  more  abundant  on  this  occasion,  so 
also  he  gave  his  indulgence  wide  latitude.  The  children, 
especially  Robert,  jumped  and  crawled  all  over  him.  Once  or 
twice  Elsie  admonished  her  little  son  not  to  be  so  rough  with 


152  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

his  grandfather,  but  Gottfried  laughed  away  her  fears  every 
time.  Rough?  The  boy  was  not  rough  enough!  He  in- 
vited all  the  pranks  his  grandson  could  play  and  when  they 
were  exhausted  Gottfried  began  to  teach  him  new  tricks. 

Anna  watched  her  husband  with  delight.  Gottfried  seemed 
like  a  boy  once  more.  Half  of  his  fifty-odd  years  seemed  to 
have  rolled  off  his  shoulders.  He  was  spry  and  nimble  again, 
catching  the  ball  which  Robert  was  tossing  to  him  with  ease, 
or  picking  up  the  little  fellow  on  a  run  and  swinging  him 
high  over  his  head,  while  Ruth  choked  with  laughter. 

Anna,  who  was  always  grieved,  but  never  took  sides,  in 
the  standing  quarrel  between  father  and  son  over  matters  of 
politics,  now  felt  as  if  the  last  layer  of  resentment  was  thaw- 
ing in  Gottfried's  heart  and  that  henceforth  Fred  and  his 
father  would  once  again  live  in  harmony  and  understanding 
with  each  other.  Yes,  a  secret  hope  even  came  to  her  that 
she  might  prevail  upon  her  husband  to  move  to  the  Bronx  so 
that  they  might  be  near  the  children  and  Fred  and  Elsie  and 
see  them  every  day.  The  subject  of  moving  from  Klein- 
deutschland  was  not  an  easy  one  to  broach.  Gottfried  had 
lived  there  ever  since  he  came  to  America.  The  halls  where 
he  spoke  were  there,  the  union  headquarters  were  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  the  Arheiter  Zeitung  was  only  a  short  distance 
from  their  home.  He  would  miss  his  friends,  he  would  miss 
the  atmosphere,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  not  impossible,  not  now, 
not  after  the  way  he  was  playing  with  his  grandchildren! 

Anna  half  listened  to  her  daughter-in-law.  The  smile 
which  played  upon  her  thin,  wizened  face  and  bloodless  lips 
—  the  face  and  lips  of  an  old  woman  who  had  been  an  invalid 
all  her  life  —  was  there  not  in  response  to  what  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law was  saying,  but  because  of  the  picture  she  was  con- 
juring up  in  her  mind.  She  could  swear  that  Gottfried  would 
move  to  the  Bronx.    Why,  she  had  never  seen  the  man  look 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  153 

so  happy  in  years.  The  grandchildren  were  making  him 
happy.  The  pent  paternal  longings  were  loosened.  Gott- 
fried was  a  boy  again,  the  boy  she  knew  under  the  lime  trees 
on  the  Rhine. 

Gottfried,  meantime,  had  left  the  house,  followed  by  his 
two  grandchildren.  They  needed  more  room  to  play  in  than 
the  house  afforded  and  there  was  plenty  of  it  outside.  Only  a 
few  rods  distant  the  fields  began.  Little  Bob  insisted  that 
his  grandpa  race  with  him  and  Gottfried  agreed  to  it  readily, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  Ruth  who,  being  older,  thought  that 
her  brother  had  overstepped  the  limits  in  asking  his  grand- 
father to  run  with  him  as  he  was  wont  to  ask  his  father 
to  do. 

Gottfried  raced.  After  a  few  jumps  his  thin,  wiry  frame 
became  supple  again  and  a  reserve  of  youth  which  the  gray- 
ness  of  his  life  had  never  permitted  to  come  to  the  surface,  now 
bubbled  up  and  ran  over  in  all  his  actions.  When  a  boy, 
Gottfried  could  whistle  well.  He  now  tried  it  and  it  came 
back  to  him.  The  children  were  delighted.  He  whistled  an 
old  German  song.  Bob  and  Ruth  watched  for  some  time; 
then  they  began  to  clamor,  Ruth  for  the  words  of  the  song, 
she  wanted  to  learn  it,  and  Bob  wanted  his  grandfather  to 
teach  him  how  to  whistle. 

Elsie  had  always  been  fond  of  her  mother-in-law.  She 
loved  and  pitied  her.  Without  words  the  two  women  under- 
stood each  other.  Elsie  surmised  her  mother-in-law's  lot 
through  the  thirty  years  of  married  life  and  often  sighed  when 
she  contemplated  it.  But  never  had  a  word  or  sign  passed 
her  lips  in  her  mother-in-law's  presence.  Against  Gottfried, 
Elsie  cherished  a  slight  resentment  for  her  father-in-law's 
everlastingly  belligerent  attitude  toward  Fred.  It  was  not 
easy  for  Fred  to  be  conscious  that  he  was  a  disappointment 
to  his  father.     It  made  him  sulky  and  at  times  bitter  to  see 


154  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

his  father  turn  their  differences  in  ideas  into  protracted  and 
painful  quarrels. 

As  they  sat  at  supper  that  evening,  however,  all  of  these 
ancient  grievances  and  sorenesses  were  forgotten  on  both  sides. 
The  absence  of  Fred  from  his  accustomed  place  at  the  table 
turned  all  thoughts  to  him  all  the  more  tenderly.  Gottfried 
now  spoke  with  Elsie  about  her  husband,  about  his  Chicago 
speech.  He  was  reserved  in  his  praise,  letting  his  words 
fall  judiciously.  He  was  analyzing  his  son's  speech  and 
action  like  a  trained  critic.  He  was  trying  to  be  impartial. 
It  was  this  exaggerated  restraint,  however,  this  fear  of  being 
carried  away  by  his  own  emotions,  by  his  own  happiness, 
that  showed  his  daughter-in-law  how  deeply  proud  Gottfried 
was  of  his  son,  how  he  valued  and  appreciated  the  great  honor 
which  Fred  had  done  him  by  letting  his  plea  for  the  striking 
bakers  in  Chicago  ring  out  through  the  whole  country.  And 
Elsie  loved  her  father-in-law,  loved  him  for  that  very  pride 
and  consistency  which  she  had  assailed  on  other  occasions. 
Gottfried  had  such  ambitions  for  his  son,  for  Fred.  In  the 
face  of  this  passionate  attachment  of  the  father  for  his  son 
one  could  overlook  everything,  one  could  forgive  everything. 
It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  Gottfried  and  Anna  reached 
their  home.  The  flat  looked  out  upon  the  street,  and  through 
the  raised  window  children's  voices  came.  Gottfried  thought 
of  his  grandchildren  and  the  house  seemed  to  him  more  deso- 
late than  ever. 

Elsie  had  given  them  a  photograph  of  Ruth  and  Robert 
which  had  come  from  the  studio  only  a  few  days  previous. 
Gottfried  and  his  wife  sat  gazing  at  the  picture  by  turns. 
Anna  wanted  to  approach  the  subject  of  moving  to  the  Bronx, 
but  checked  herself.  She  must  not  be  too  hasty,  Gott- 
fried was  apt  to  resent  it.  Her  husband  was  changing,  he 
was  softening  toward  Freddy,  toward  their  grandchildren. 


FRED  SPEAKS  HIS  MIND  155 

He  would  come  around.  She  must  be  cautious.  For  such 
happiness  she  could  well  afford  to  be  patient  a  little  longer. 
Her  heart  was  trembling  for  joy.  .  .  . 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Gottfried  heard  a  hushed  sob 
escape  Anna's  breast. 

"  You  are  not  sleeping  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,''  she  said.  "  I  don't  seem  to  feel  a  bit  tired  now, 
and  I  was  so  tired  on  the  train." 

"You  know,"  Gottfried  said  a  little  later,  "Ruth  is 
going  to  look  just  like  you  —  exactly  the  way  you  looked  once, 
at  home.  She  is  going  to  have  your  hair  and  her  nose  is 
like  yours." 

Anna  did  not  answer.  The  tired  feeling  which  she  had 
been  vainly  wooing  for  the  better  part  of  two  hours  had  come 
upon  her  very  suddenly  and  left  her  completely  enervated  and 
exhausted.  Gottfried  saw  her  doze  off  and  spoke  no  more. 
He  was  staring  at  the  wall,  and  suddenly  he  beheld  a  boy- 
hood companion  he  had  not  thought  of  in  more  than  forty 
years.  He  was  delighted  to  see  him.  The  fellow  was  a 
traveling  apprentice  and  Gottfried  joined  him.  It  was  pleas- 
anter  to  travel  in  company.  His  friend  was  jolly  and  they 
sang  old  songs  about  love  and  longing.  And  then  it  was 
moonlight  and  he  had  a  narrow  escape.  He  was  going  to 
meet  his  Annchen,  and  dodged  behind  a  bush  just  in  time  to 
escape  the  eagle  eye  of  her  father,  Old  Launitz.  And  how 
they  laughed,  he  and  his  Annchen,  over  his  lucky  escape. 
She  twined  her  golden  braids  about  his  neck  and  brought 
his  face  so  close  to  her  that  his  head  began  to  swim  and  sank 
down  on  her  breast.  And  then  they  stole  along  the  hedges 
toward  the  house,  talking  in  whispers,  when  suddenly  his 
Annchen  tripped  and  clasped  his  arm  violently.  .  .  . 

He  woke  and  felt  that  his  wife's  fingers  had  that  very 
instant  become  limp  about  his  arm.    He  turned  about  and 


156  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

gazed  at  her.  It  was  morning.  A  ray  of  sunlight  was  fall- 
ing across  the  room.  Anna  was  asleep,  but  there  was  a 
strange  expression  on  her  face.  He  wondered  where  he  had 
seen  that  expression  before.  He  was  positive  he  had  seen  it 
somewhere,  sometime.  He  looked  again.  ...  An  exclama- 
tion stiffened  in  his  tongue  and  jaws.  .  .  .  His  wife  was 
dead.  ... 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN   THE  LIGHT  IS  LOW 

THE  murky  light  of  the  sleeping  car  made  reading  tire- 
some. Fred  Conrad  laid  aside  the  convention  report 
he  had  been  studying,  and,  leaning  back  in  his  seat,  watched 
the  colored  porter  make  up  a  bed  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
car;  a  woman  wished  to  put  her  baby  to  sleep  for  the  night. 
After  some  time  Fred  thought  he  felt  a  drowsiness  come  over 
him  and  he  hastened  to  yield  himself  up  to  it.  He  was  very 
tired  and  would  welcome  even  a  brief  sleep.  He  had  been 
on  the  train  all  day  and  had  been  up  early  that  morning.  In- 
deed, he  had  had  very  little  rest  in  the  three  weeks  since  his 
mother's  death.  With  her  demise  a  host  of  new  domestic 
problems  had  arisen. 

But  the  drowsiness  was  deceptive.  Sleep  did  not  come  to 
him.  He  was  too  tired  to  drop  off  readily  into  rest  and  for- 
getf  ulness.  So  he  moved  over  to  the  window  and  watched  the 
shifting  panorama.  It  was  a  clear,  moonlight  evening  in 
August.  The  breath  of  the  country  was  sweet.  But  the  soft 
wind  seemed  to  Fred  Conrad  to  be  fraught  with  sadness. 
The  trees,  and  here  and  there  a  lonely  stack  of  hay,  stood 
silent,  dark  gray,  as  if  contemplating  the  mystery  of  existence, 
the  shortness  of  life  and  the  ugliness  of  death,  which  is  the 
inevitable  epilogue  of  all  handiworks  of  nature.  Fred's 
thoughts  turned  inward. 

With  all  his  domestic  griefs  and  trials  of  the  past  few 
weeks,  he  had  had  to  tend  to  business.    There  was  no  letting 

157 


158  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

up.  Life  thought  only  in  terms  of  living  and  had  no  time  for 
tears  and  regrets.  He  made  his  report  on  the  Chicago  vic- 
tory to  the  Executive  Council  of  the  Bakers'  Amalgamated 
Association.  The  officers  of  the  Council  called  a  mass  meet- 
ing of  all  the  baker  unions  for  Sunday  afternoon.  The  rank 
and  file  was  to  hear  from  Fred  Conrad's  own  lips  the  story  of 
what  their  Chicago  comrades  had  achieved.  A  rousing  speech 
was  expected  of  Conrad.  With  his  mother's  fresh  grave  con- 
stantly before  his  eyes,  however,  Fred  could  only  speak  evenly 
and  moderately.  He  was  not  underestimating  the  triumph  of 
the  Chicago  strikers.  Far  from  it!  But  he  passed  over 
lightly  his  own  part  in  it.  He  said  not  a  word  about  his  own, 
and  by  this  time,  celebrated  speech. 

To  the  few  men  in  the  audience  who  knew  that  Fred  Con- 
rad had  buried  his  mother  in  the  early  part  of  that  week,  his 
subdued  demeanor  on  the  platform  was  justified  and  they 
watched  him  with  sympathetic  eyes.  The  very  softness  of 
his  speech,  however,  the  complete  absence  of  even  the  most 
legitimate  bit  of  pride  or  swagger,  in  the  end  piled  up  great 
strength  and  the  cumulative  effect  of  it  did  not  miss  the  audi- 
ence. The  men  had  come  there  to  be  thrilled  by  an  exultant, 
fiery  speech  of  defiance.  They  found  themselves  inspired  by 
the  earnest  words  of  the  speaker  and  by  the  unassuming, 
democratic  way  in  which  they  were  spoken.  Fred  Conrad  was 
the  lion  of  the  occasion.  Every  one  in  the  audience  was  eager 
to  hear  the  next  step,  for  a  next  step  there  must  be  to  such  an 
occasion,  to  such  a  victory.  The  union  must  make  good  use 
of  Fred  Conrad.     He  should  be  given  the  means  to  do  things. 

Ed  Linden,  the  president  of  the  Executive  Council,  phrased 
these  thoughts  of  the  mass  of  workingmen  in  proper  form. 
Linden  spoke  straight  from  the  shoulder.  The  Chicago  vic- 
tory must  be  capitalized  by  the  Bakers'  Amalgamated  Asso- 
ciation.    The  bakers  in  other  cities  must  gain  similar  con- 


WHEN  THE  LIGHT  IS  LOW  159 

cessions.  They  must  at  once  begin  a  campaign  of  organiza- 
tion. There  should  be  a  branch  of  the  Bakers'  Amalgamated 
Association  in  every  city  in  the  United  States. 

Here  Ed  Linden  expanded  his  chest,  a  trick  of  his  which 
invariably  denoted  triumph  and  which  the  audience  well 
knew.  It  was  he,  Ed  Linden,  who  had  first  advanced  the 
suggestion  to  the  Executive  Council  to  send  Fred  Conrad  to 
co-operate  with  the  Chicago  strikers.  Well,  he  now  had 
another  idea.  The  Executive  Council,  without  delay,  should 
appoint  Fred  Conrad  national  organizer  and  send  him  out  on 
a  campaign  of  organization  throughout  the  country. 

It  was  as  National  Organizer  of  the  Bakers'  Amalgamated 
Association  that  Fred  was  now  on  his  way  to  St.  Louis  to 
take  charge  of  a  strike  there.  When  he  had  settled  matters 
in  St.  Louis,  he  was  to  start  in  on  his  organization  tour  which 
was  to  extend  as  far  as  the  Pacific  Coast.  The  union  figured 
that  it  would  take  him  at  least  three  months  to  cover  the 
ground.  Fred  was  now  thinking  about  this.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  was  to  be  away  from  his  family  for  so  long. 
He  mused  about  the  prospective  trip  cheerlessly. 

The  train  was  now  cutting  through  a  small  Pennsylvania 
town.  As  it  passed  the  main  street  it  slowed  up  a  trifle  and 
bits  of  life  came  into  view.  It  had  been  a  sultry  day  and 
every  one  seemed  tired,  weary.  On  a  deserted  street,  a  ragged 
urchin  stopped  in  his  slow,  even  walk  to  examine  the  passing 
train.  The  boy  was  looking  at  the  Pullmans  reflectively,  as 
if  trying  to  fathom  what  life  in  these  sleeping-cars  might  be 
like.  The  car  passed  him  and  a  little  farther  on  Fred  saw 
a  young  woman  lift  a  four-year-old  boy  from  the  steps  of 
the  porch  where  he  had  fallen  asleep.  As  they  disappeared 
from  view,  Fred  caught  a  final  glimpse  of  the  mother  holding 
the  face  of  her  sleeping  child  close  to  her  own  and  kissing 
it   tenderly.     It   was   children's   bedtime.     He   thought   of 


i6o  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Ruth  and  Robert.    Elsie  must  be  putting  them  to  bed  now. 

A  yearning  for  his  wife  came  over  him.  Elsie  meant  so 
much  to  him.  He  would  never  dare  tell  how  much  his  wife 
meant  to  him.  Most  people  would  not  understand  it.  They 
might  even  laugh  at  him,  think  him  weak.  A  friend  of  his, 
a  union  official,  had  told  him  recently  of  certain  troubles  he 
was  going  through.  He  wanted  Fred's  advice  and  sympathy. 
He  had  to  have  a  living  soul  to  talk  to,  the  man  had  said. 

"  What  does  your  wife  do  in  the  matter?  "  Fred  had  asked. 

The  friend  had  looked  up  at  him  amazed,  almost  offended. 

"  Wife?  "  he  had  said.  "  Why,  she  knows  nothing  of  it. 
I  never  talk  to  her  about  such  things." 

Fred  had  wondered  how  such  a  state  of  affairs  could  exist 
in  a  family.  As  for  himself,  he  talked  over  everything  with 
Elsie;  his  work,  his  family  affairs,  his  conception  of  the  labor 
movement  and  what  its  aims  should  be.  It  was  a  relief  to 
have  her  take  a  situation  apart,  thread  by  thread,  and  then 
put  it  together  again.  In  that  process,  somehow,  his  mind 
would  clear  and  his  heart  would  lighten.  Things  never 
seemed  quite  so  grave  or  difficult  after  he  had  talked  them 
over  with  Elsie. 

His  thoughts  of  Elsie  were  becoming  painful;  the  twelve 
weeks  ahead  loomed  like  an  interminable  vista.  It  would 
be  hard,  but  he  was  not  complaining.  One  had  to  take  life 
as  it  comes  —  he  had  long  ago  learned  that  lesson.  But  it 
was  a  great  pity  none  the  less.  He  and  Elsie  had  never  really 
had  enough  of  each  other's  company.  In  the  first  two  years 
of  their  married  life  he  still  worked  in  the  bakeshop  at  night. 
Then  he  was  made  business  agent  of  the  union  and  he  had 
stayed  in  various  official  capacities  ever  since.  That  ended 
his  night  work  in  the  shop,  but  his  evenings  were  taken  from 
him,  nevertheless,  by  union  business.  There  were  endless 
committee  meetings,  agitation  meetings,  conferences  with  em- 


WHEN  THE  LIGHT  IS  LOW  161 

ployers.  They  were  held  in  the  evening  mostly.  Later, 
when  his  name  as  a  level-spoken  man  had  gone  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  bakers'  association,  the  Central  Labor  Board,  an 
organization  of  the  combined  labor  unions  of  New  York,  to 
which  he  was  a  delegate,  would  frequently  appoint  him  on 
committees  to  help  adjust  strikes  and  grievances  in  trades  out- 
side his  own.  They  needed  clear-minded  men  in  the  labor 
movement.  The  employers  were  sharp;  they  never  made  a 
move  without  consulting  an  attorney.  The  union  leaders  had 
to  think  fast  and  be  on  guard. 

With  all  these  demands  on  his  time,  Elsie  was  forced  to 
stay  at  home  in  the  evening  pretty  much  as  his  mother  had 
done  during  his  childhood.  Only,  of  course,  there  was  this 
vast  difference:  his  mother  had  been  alone  in  a  strange  land; 
Elsie  was  at  least  in  her  own  country.  She  was  at  home  here. 
And  then  again  she  was  not  nearly  so  lonesome  as  his  mother 
had  been.  It  was  not  yet  three  years  since  Old  Man  Gardner 
had  died.  Up  to  the  last  Elsie's  uncle  had  come  to  their 
house  every  evening.  He  would  put  Ruthie  and,  later,  Robert 
to  bed  and  would  tell  them  stories.  It  was  a  pity  the  old  man 
could  not  have  lived  longer.  They  all  needed  him  so  much. 
The  children  missed  in  him  a  grandfather,  and  Fred,  a  friend 
and  adviser  of  deep  insight  and  keen  judgment.  He,  Fred, 
was  indebted  to  the  old  family  uncle  for  many  of  his  de- 
cisive moves  and  policies.  The  old  man  had  had  a  part  in 
framing  his  attitude  on  most  questions  and  matters  of  im- 
portance. It  was  remarkable  how  Old  Man  Gardner  could 
clinch  a  situation.  Thought  with  him  was  never  merely  a 
gymnastic  exercise.  It  was  utilitarian,  definite,  leading  some- 
where, to  something.  He  was  so  characteristically  American. 
He  would  never  lose  himself  in  a  haze  of  ideas  as  his  father, 
Gottfried  Conrad,  did,  for  instance.  It  was  a  saying  of 
Gardner's  that  while  dreams  must  precede  action,  dreams  were 


i62  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

injurious  when  not  crowned  by  achievements.  Fred  Conrad 
never  forgot  these  words. 

Too  bad  he  died  so  early,  Fred  mused.  He  was  thinking 
about  life;  how  treacherous  it  was,  how  it  always  gave  way 
when  one  thought  one  was  on  a  sure  footing.  There  was 
his  mother,  a  young  woman  compared  to  Mr.  Gardner.  At 
the  very  moment  when  she  might  have  enjoyed  life,  might 
have  compensated  herself  for  her  years  of  suffering  and  silent 
torture,  her  existence  was  snuffed  out  like  a  candle  that  is 
blown  out  by  the  wind. 

The  thought  of  his  mother  was  crowded  out  by  the  thought 
of  Mrs.  Gardner.  Fred  had  been  so  busy  since  his  mother's 
death  that  he  had  forgotten  to  ask  Elsie  when  she  had  last 
heard  from  her  aunt.  Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Gardner,  his 
widow  went  to  live  with  a  sister  in  Boston,  though  Elsie  and 
Fred  had  implored  her  to  stay  with  them.  Elsie  was  cor- 
responding with  her  from  time  to  time. 

While  Fred  Conrad's  thoughts,  in  the  dim  lamplight  of  the 
sleeping-car,  were  turning  in  a  circle  about  his  family  —  the 
living  and  the  dead  —  his  father  was  finishing  his  evening 
meal  in  a  humble  restaurant  on  one  of  Little  Germany's  side 
streets.  Most  of  the  men  about  the  tables  were  in  the  twen- 
ties, unmarried  young  immigrants.  They  were  steady  patrons 
of  the  place  and  every  one  knew  every  one  else.  Gottfried 
Conrad  was  the  only  elderly  person  in  the  room  and  his  dis- 
tracted, but  impressive,  appearance  aroused  considerable  in- 
terest. 

Gottfried  had  purposely  passed  by  several  of  the  better 
known  German  restaurants  in  the  district  in  favor  of  this 
humble  place  because  he  did  not  wish  to  take  chances  of 
meeting  people  he  might  know.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  meet 
and  talk  to  any  one.    It  was  hard  for  him  to  get  accustomed 


WHEN  THE  LIGHT  IS  LOW  163 

to  taking  his  meals  in  a  restaurant.  It  seemed  undignified 
to  be  sitting  a  stranger  at  a  strange  table  after  so  many  years 
of  married  life.  Even  more  depressing  was  the  thought  of  be- 
coming a  "  boarder  "  somewhere.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to 
cease  being  the  head  of  the  house  after  more  than  thirty  years. 

Several  of  the  men  who  entered  the  restaurant  at  the  same 
time  with  Conrad  had  already  left.  Gottfried  was  conscious 
that  he  was  lingering  too  long.  But  he  did  not  hurry  to  leave 
the  table.  It  had  been  a  warm  day  and  he  was  completely 
enervated.  It  was  pleasant  to  yield  oneself  up  to  the  rest- 
fulness  of  a  cigar  and  to  one's  thoughts  a  little  longer. 

Once  in  the  street  he  started  for  home.  But  when  he 
reached  the  tenement  where  he  lived,  he  changed  his  mind. 
What  was  the  use  of  hurrying  to  his  flat  ?  He  did  not  expect 
any  one  that  evening.  Fred  had  left  the  city  in  the  morning. 
Elsie  could  not  possibly  come  at  this  time  of  night.  He 
stepped  into  Vogelsang's  hall. 

Gottfried  sat  at  one  of  the  tables  and  ordered  a  glass  of 
beer,  but  he  did  not  touch  it.  He  was  ruminating  and  turning 
over  in  his  mind  the  problem  of  his  own  future.  Since  the 
day  of  the  funeral,  his  children,  Fred  and  Elsie,  had  been 
clamoring  for  him  to  make  his  home  with  them.  But  he  had 
been  delaying.  He  invented  various  excuses  for  this  delay. 
Matters  of  delicacy  alone  prevented  his  son  and  daughter-in- 
law  from  exposing  his  excuses  as  sham  and  hollow.  They 
did  not  wish  to  press  him  too  hard.  Perhaps  he  needed  time 
and  solitude  to  reconcile  him  to  the  fact  of  his  wife's  death, 
and  accustom  his  mind  to  the  rearrangement  of  his  existence. 
But  why  was  he  delaying?  What  was  he  planning  to  do? 
Yes,  what? 

He  stared  ahead  of  him  through  the  hazy  atmosphere.  The 
room  was  filled  with  people  and  everybody  was  talking,  but 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  it.     He  was  facing  a  hard 


i64  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

problem  and  his  mind  was  concentrated  upon  its  solution. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  eager  voice  and  hearty  greeting  of 
Otto  Bachman. 

Gottfried  was  glad  to  see  Bachman  at  all  times.  It  was 
a  relief  to  see  him  now.  He  and  Bachman  had  been  friends 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  With  Gottfried  Conrad  and 
Heinrich  Kolb,  Otto  Bachman  was  one  of  the  little  group  of 
pioneers  of  the  socialist  movement  in  America.  He  was  one 
of  the  founders  of  the  socialist  organ,  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung. 
Less  intellectual  than  either  Kolb  or  Gottfried,  Bachman  pos- 
sessed that  quality  which  the  Germans  call  "  Treue,"  faith- 
fulness to  a  cause  and  to  a  friend,  faithfulness  unto  death. 

"  So  you  are  not  staying  with  your  son,"  Bachman  repeated 
in  a  daze,  when  Gottfried  came  to  that  part  of  his  story.  He 
was  moved  to  tears  by  the  recital  of  his  friend's  trials,  by 
Gottfried's  complicated,  broken  life. 

"  No,"  said  Gottfried.  "  I  have  been  beating  about  the 
bush,  trying  to  invent  all  sorts  of  excuses  for  refusing  to  live 
with  my  son.  It  has  been  hard  on  Fred  —  he  is  heartbroken 
over  it.  He  expects  me  to  move  to  him  soon;  I  half  promised 
him  that  I  would. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  won't,"  Gottfried  added  after  a  mo- 
ment. 

Bachman  sat  gazing  at  him  intently.  He  had  always 
admired  Gottfried's  directness  of  speech  and  thought.  Con- 
rad always  faced  the  truth  unflinchingly,  even  when  it  hurt. 
He  was  facing  it  now. 

"  You  see,"  Gottfried  was  saying,  and  his  eyes  filled,  "  it 
is  like  this:  Fred  and  I  both  need  room  —  for  ideas,  I  mean. 
I  am  not  yet  ready  to  give  up  the  struggle  physically  or  in- 
tellectually. I  am  not  yet  fifty-five.  I  am  still  strong.  I 
think  as  clearly  as  ever  and  I  am  as  firm  in  my  convictions 
as  ever.     I  can  and  will  be  of  use  to  the  movement  as  much 


WHEN  THE  LIGHT  IS  LOW  165 

as  ever  —  perhaps  more.  .  .  .  For  I  no  longer  have  obliga- 
tions.    I  have  no  one  to  look  after.  .  .  ." 

Bachman  broke  a  momentary  silence. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  why  can't  you  stay  with  your  son  and 
go  on  with  your  work  in  the  movement  just  as  you  are  plan- 
ning? Fred  surely  would  not  interfere  with  you.  I  know 
the  boy.  It  is  not  in  him  to  impose  his  will  upon  another 
by  force." 

Gottfried  laughed,  a  sad,  weary  chuckle. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  in  him,  but  it  is  in  me.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  Fred's  trying  to  force  his  convictions  upon  me, 
but  I  am  afraid  that  I  may  be  trying  to  impose  my  ideas 
upon  him.     It  is  myself  I  fear,  my  —  my  — " 

Gottfried  stopped  short,  trying  to  find  the  right  word. 
Then  he  continued : 

"  I  have  lived  all  my  life  in  a  world  of  ideas.  I  struggled 
for  ideas.  On  the  battlefield  of  ideas  I  cannot  stay  neutral, 
not  even  with  my  own  son.  There  has  been  a  standing  in- 
tellectual feud  between  my  son  and  myself.  ...  As  long  as 
my  wife  lived  there  was  always  some  one  to  patch  up  our 
differences.  There  is  no  one  now.  So  we  must  not  quarrel, 
my  son  and  I.  .  .  .  But  what  German  will  not  bite  and  scrap 
for  his  convictions,  even  with  his  own  son,  even  if  his  heart 
bleed  to  death  in  the  process  ?  I  am  afraid  to  move  to  Fred's 
—  afraid  of  myself." 

There  was  a  note  of  extreme  bitterness  in  Gottfried's  last 
words.  Bachman  was  seized  with  great  pity  for  his  com- 
rade. How  fine  the  fates  were  grinding,  he  mused.  The 
powerful  Gottfried  broken  in  two  in  what  should  be  his  best 
years.  Had  Bachman  been  a  believer,  he  would  have  thanked 
God,  for  his  heart  was  overflowing  in  him.  Life  had  been 
kind  to  him.     His  wife,  his  Marie,  had  never  had  a  sick  day. 

"  There  is  no  use  taking  things  so  hard,"  Bachman  said 


i66  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

after  some  deliberation.  "  You  don't  have  to  go  to  your  son 
at  once.  And  after  a  time  things  may  straighten  out  of  their 
own  accord.     But  you  cannot  go  on  living  by  yourself." 

Gottfried  shifted  uneasily.  Since  his  wife's  death  and  his 
refusal  to  move  to  his  son's,  Elsie  had  come  down  every  other 
day,  and  sometimes  oftener,  to  look  after  his  little  flat.  Now 
that  Fred  was  out  of  town,  it  would  be  a  strain  on  her.  It 
was  too  much  to  let  her  do.  Moreover,  she  was  expecting  him 
to  move  to  her  every  day. 

"  Gottfried,"  Otto  Bachman  broke  his  friend's  revery,  and 
as  he  continued  speaking  there  was  in  his  voice  that  rare 
quality  of  friendship  between  man  and  man  that  has  its  roots 
in  a  primitive,  epic  age,  "  Gottfried,  I  —  we  have  only  one  boy 
at  home  now.  All  our  other  children  are  gone  —  married. 
Until  you  can  see  your  way  clear  toward  staying  with  your 
son,  come  to  us.  We  shall  be  delighted,  Marie  and  I.  Marie 
has  often  spoken  about  your  plight  since  your  wife's  death. 
Come  with  me;  it  will  make  things  like  old  times  again." 

Gottfried  looked  up  at  Bachman  in  a  daze.  His  conver- 
sation had  left  him  exhausted,  helpless  for  the  moment.  In 
his  friend's  words  he  sensed  rest,  shelter,  protection.  And 
he  was  too  weary  not  to  yield. 

Otto  Bachman  hustled  him  out  of  the  hall  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  were  at  his  home  and  Mrs.  Bachman  piled  re- 
freshments on  the  table,  sufficient  to  make  a  good-sized  meal 
for  a  good-sized  family. 

Mrs.  Bachman  was  a  woman  in  the  fifties.  She  had  raised 
six  children.  Life  was  hard  during  the  first  fifteen  years  of 
her  married  life.  But  as  she  had  never  had  a  day's  illness 
in  her  house  she  managed  things.  Then  when  the  children 
were  old  enough  to  go  to  work  the  Bachman  family  began 
to  enjoy  a  degree  of  prosperity  that  told  particularly  on  Mrs. 
Bachman.     Her  complexion  was  clear  and  florid,  and  she 


WHEN  THE  LIGHT  IS  LOW  167 

always  looked  fresh  and  rested,  as  if  she  had  just  had  a  good 
nap.  Even  her  gray  hair  seemed  but  to  intensify  this  impres- 
sion of  rest  and  repose  which  she  radiated. 

Bachman  urged  Conrad  to  move  the  next  morning.  But 
Gottfried  postponed  it  until  the  end  of  the  week.  It  was  hard 
to  break  up  his  home ;  he  would  proceed  about  it  slowly.  He 
would  be  at  strange  tables  long  enough  —  too  long.  He 
spent  the  next  few  days  in  gloomy  meditations.  Saturday 
afternoon  he  hunted  up  an  expressman  and  asked  him  to 
come  bright  and  early  the  next  morning.  He  had  disposed 
of  most  of  his  furniture  to  a  second-hand  man.  He  did  not 
want  to  let  his  friends  know  that  he  was  breaking  up  his 
home,  though  he  would  gladly  have  given  some  of  the  things 
away  to  people  in  the  neighborhood.  He  spent  the  last  night 
in  his  bare  flat,  sleeplessly.  At  six  o'clock  the  expressman 
came.  By  seven  he  had  moved.  All  the  things  he  cared  to 
take  with  him  went  into  the  family  trunk.  In  addition,  he 
took  with  him  a  small  bookcase  which  he  had  cherished  for 
years  and  a  little  table  upon  which  stood  the  family  album. 
With  these  he  would  not  part. 

He  avoided  looking  at  the  Bachmans.  As  soon  as  he  had 
arranged  everything  to  his  satisfaction  in  his  room,  he  pleaded 
an  engagement  and  left  the  house.  He  started  northward 
almost  at  a  run.  He  was  going  to  the  Bronx,  to  his  grand- 
children. But  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  take  the  elevated.  He 
had  to  think  out  a  defense  for  himself,  for  his  action,  to 
Elsie.  It  would  be  a  staggering  blow  to  his  daughter-in-law, 
to  Fred,  his  moving  to  strangers.  He  must  smooth  it  over, 
explain  it.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  returning  and  re- 
storing everything  to  its  former  place.  His  mind  would  not 
stay  still.  He  was  not  sure  of  himself.  But  the  impossibil- 
ity of  the  thing  was  too  patent.  He  must  find  an  excuse,  a 
proper  excuse,  to  make  to  Elsie.     And  his  grandchildren  — 


i68  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

what  if  they  should  ask  him  when  he  was  coming  to  stay 
with  them  ?  Their  mother  might  have  told  them  that  he  was 
coming ! 

It  was  hot,  but  he  walked  faster  and  faster,  beads  of  per- 
spiration coming  to  his  forehead.  Suddenly  he  came  upon 
large  numbers  of  people.  He  wondered  what  had  happened. 
He  stopped  and  looked  about.  Then  he  recalled  —  it  was 
Sunday.  People  were  going  to  church.  They  were  going  in 
families,  just  as  in  the  Old  World,  just  as  they  did  years  ago, 
thirty  years  ago.  The  church  was  surely  holding  its  own! 
He  noticed  several  men  his  own  age  among  the  churchgoers. 
One  of  these  was  leading  a  child  of  six,  apparently  a  grand- 
son, by  the  hand.  How  rested  all  these  people  looked,  how 
contented !     Life  had  apparently  been  kind  to  them.  .  .  . 

He  passed  the  church-going  crowd  and  came  upon  a  little 
park.  He  had  not  eaten  that  morning  and  realized  that  he 
was  tired;  he  sought  a  shady  bench  to  sit  down.  He  still 
had  no  proper  excuse  for  Elsie,  for  Fred.  .  .  .  And  he  had 
to  have  it,  by  all  means.  He  must  not  let  this  step  of  his 
cause  a  quarrel  between  them.  ...  It  would  never  do  to  have 
a  quarrel.  ...  If  Anna  had  only  lived,  she  would  have 
pulled  him  out  of  this  trouble.  She  could  always  appeal  to 
Fred  and  Elsie  with  a  look.  She  could  make  them  do  any- 
thing. .  .  .  Anna  —  Annchen.  ...  He  wept.  .  .  . 

Elsie,  too,  had  slept  ill  that  night.  She  was  thinking  of 
her  father-in-law.  She  felt  guilty  about  him.  It  was  ex- 
cusable in  Fred  not  to  see  it  —  he  was  a  son.  But  she  —  she 
should  have  understood  at  once. 

They  should  not  have  pressed  her  father-in-law  to  make 
his  home  with  them.  Gottfried  Conrad  was  still  hale  and 
vigorous.  Some  might  even  consider  him  in  the  prime  of  life. 
He  could  have  a  home  of  his  own  for  a  good  many  years 


WHEN  THE  LIGHT  IS  LOW  169 

yet  —  why  rush  into  the  arms  of  old  age  ?  Why  cease  to  lead 
an  independent  existence?  Perhaps  her  father-in-law  was 
thinking  these  things  when  he  made  such  pitiful  excuses  for 
not  coming  to  stay  with  them.  Perhaps  he  was  considering 
the  possibility  of  remarrying  at  some  later  date.  Such  things 
were  not  at  all  uncommon.  She  was  not  so  sure  that  they 
were  wrong.  She  had  known  some  very  nice  people  who  had 
remarried  after  some  time. 

She  would  write  Fred  about  it.  He  must  see  it.  He  must 
view  the  situation  with  an  open  mind.  He  must  not  be  unjust 
to  his  father.  Why  had  she  not  thought  about  it  a  day  or  two 
sooner  ?     Such  things  are  so  much  better  spoken  than  written. 

Would  her  father-in-law  come  that  day?  She  hoped  fer- 
vently that  he  would.  She  wished  to  see  him.  She  would 
not  importune  him  any  more.  She  would  make  it  plain  to 
him  that  their  home  was  his  home  —  if  he  wished  it.  But 
if  not,  they  were  with  him  in  whatever  his  desires  were.  Her 
concern,  and  Fred's,  was  chiefly  about  his  happiness,  about 
his  well-being.  If  he  did  not  wish  to  part  with  his  home, 
with  his  old  surroundings  in  Little  Germany,  they  were  with 
him  in  his  decisions.  They  understood  him;  their  sympathies 
were  with  him.  There  should  never  be  any  misunderstand- 
ing between  them.  She  would  see  to  it,  she  must  see  to  it, 
now  that  her  mother-in-law  was  dead.  She  must  take  up  the 
cloak  of  family  peace  that  her  mother-in-law  had  left  behind. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   MEASURE  OF   FRED   CONRAD 

IT  was  two  days  before  Christmas.  Gottfried  Conrad  had 
insisted  on  buying  the  Christmas  tree  for  his  grandchil- 
dren and  that  evening  he  was  to  bring  some  of  the  trimmings 
for  it.  He  was  expected  to  supper  and  would  probably  stay 
over  night  in  view  of  the  weather.  It  had  been  snowing 
heavily  all  day.  Ruth  and  Robert  had  been  in  a  state  of 
excitement  all  afternoon.  The  coming  of  their  grandfather, 
though  it  was  of  frequent  occurrence  of  late,  was  an  event  of 
supreme  thrill  and  excitement  to  them  every  time. 

Fred  had  come  home  earlier  than  usual  that  evening  and 
as  soon  as  Elsie  saw  his  face  she  knew  that  something  had 
happened. 

"  What's  the  trouble?  "  she  asked,  leading  the  way  to  the 
kitchen. 

"  Why,  does  it  look  like  trouble?  "  Fred  smiled  wanly  as 
he  seated  himself  in  the  old  oak  rocker  which  summered  on 
the  porch  and  wintered  near  the  stove. 

"  You  seem  worried,"  his  wife  said  as  she  moved  the  boil- 
ing kettle  to  one  side  to  make  room  for  a  fresh  pot. 

*'  I  don't  know  as  I  can  call  it  worry,"  he  replied.  "  I'm 
just  thinking.  I  may  experience  a  change  of  employers 
soon." 

Elsie  waited. 

"  Arthur  Bayes,"  Fred  continued  after  a  brief  pause, 
"  called  at  the  office  and  had  a  talk  with  me  to-day.  He 
wants  me  to  have  lunch  with  him  and  with  Mark  Gelder 

170 


THE  MEASURE  OF  FRED  CONRAD        171 

to-morrow.  Mark  Gelder  has  been  wanting  to  see  me  for 
some  time,  Bayes  said,  so  he  thought  he  would  arrange  a  little 
luncheon  for  us  to  meet  and  talk." 

"  You  think  Gelder  might  offer  you  a  job  with  the  Federa- 
tion? "  Elsie  asked  quickly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fred.  "  I'm  almost  certain  that  that  is  what 
he  wants  to  see  me  about.  The  Federation  voted  the  other 
day  to  put  five  additional  organizers  in  the  field  and  I  was 
told  that  Mark  Gelder  has  been  keeping  an  eye  on  me.  I 
suppose  he  is  coming  to  town  to-morrow  to  take  my  measure. 
That  is  his  way  of  doing  things." 

Mark  Gelder  was  the  president  of  the  General  Labor  Fed- 
eration of  America.  To  become  an  organizer  for  the  Federa- 
tion was  the  next  logical  position  for  Fred  Conrad  to  be 
called  to.  It  was  an  honor  and  it  meant  advancement  finan- 
cially and  otherwise.  Of  course  Fred  Conrad  would  not 
reject  it.  But  he  was  not  keen  for  it.  He  was  uneasy  and 
would  have  been  more  satisfied  if  they  had  passed  him  by, 
had  overlooked  him  for  some  time  yet.  He  was  at  home  in 
the  bakers'  union,  and  was  afraid  of  the  Federation.  He 
did  not  feel  himself  quite  suited  to  it.  A  job  with  the  Feder- 
ation often  meant  politics  fully  as  much  as  work.  And  he 
detested  politics.  .  .  .  Moreover,  he  was  a  little  apprehensive 
of  Mark  Gelder.  The  president  of  the  General  Labor  Fed- 
eration had  of  late  been  launching  crusades  against  the  social- 
ists. Mark  Gelder,  Fred  feared,  might  prove  as  fanatically 
against  socialism  as  his  father  was  for  it.  And  he  was  tired 
of  crusades  in  either  direction.  He  was  weary  of  politics. 
Ever  since  he  could  remember  politics  was  the  cause  of  strife 
and  discord  in  their  home,  the  bane  of  his  existence.  .  .  . 

"  It  will  mean  staying  away  from  home  much  more  often 
and  for  longer  periods."  Fred  broke  a  prolonged  silence. 
"  But  it  will  mean  more  money.  .  .  .  We  could  save  quite  a 


172  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

little  toward  an  education  for  the  children.  .  .  .  And  we 
might  be  able  to  buy  a  home  perhaps.  .  .  ." 

A  pot  needed  attention  and  Elsie  was  busy  for  some  mo- 
ments, Fred  turned  about  and  glanced  into  the  front  room. 
Ruth  and  Robert  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  and  between  them 
were  endeavoring  to  teach  the  cat  good  manners. 

"  A  home  of  their  own.  ..."  Fred's  mind  had  been  revolv- 
ing about  this  thought  much  of  late.  While  he  did  his  work 
as  an  organizer  for  the  bakers  well  and  faithfully  he  had  no 
violent  ambitions  in  the  labor  movement.  It  was  in  his 
home  and  his  children,  rather,  that  his  ambitions  reached  their 
limit.  He  meant  to  educate  his  children.  He  had  hoped 
that  his  boy  would  be  spared  the  necessity  of  doing  manual 
labor.  He  would  never  permit  his  Robert  to  work  nights  as 
he  did,  to  go  to  work  at  an  early  age.  As  for  Ruth,  he  often, 
on  the  way  to  the  office,  passed  girls  who  were  going  to  busi- 
ness college.  They  looked  nice  and  fresh  —  so  different  from 
the  girls  who  passed  in  an  endless  stream  on  the  way  to  the 
factory  at  seven  in  the  morning.  He  meant  to  send  Ruth  to 
business  college. 

He  was  not  forgetting  Elsie.  He  had  ambitions  for  her 
too.  He  pictured  her  standing  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
their  own  home  waiting  for  him.  She  would  look  good  on  the 
green  lawn  on  a  summer  afternoon.  .  .  .  They  were  selling 
cozy  middle-class  homes  at  reasonable  prices  in  their  immedi- 
ate neighborhood.  People  were  paying  off  such  homes  with 
their  rent.  .  .  . 

Elsie  was  thinking  of  the  long  lone  winter  nights  that 
awaited  her,  for  she  too  saw  that  Fred  must  take  the  job  with 
the  Federation.  It  was  promotion.  It  was  the  only  chance 
a  man  in  the  labor  movement  had  to  advance.  The 
money  .  .  . 

She  was  not  letting  her  thoughts  interfere  with  her  work. 


THE  MEASURE  OF  FRED  CONRAD        173 

She  watched  over  the  roast  and  turned  over  the  potatoes  with 
undivided  attention.  Elsie  was  very  proud  of  her  baked 
potatoes.  They  came  out  as  soft  as  butter  and  she  never 
burned  them. 

Supper  was  ready.  She  looked  at  the  clock  and  was  seized 
with  anxiety.  It  was  past  seven.  They  were  so  absorbed  in 
conversation  they  had  not  noticed  how  late  it  was.  Gott- 
fried should  have  been  there  for  some  time.  Outside  the 
snowstorm  of  the  afternoon  was  turning  into  a  blizzard. 
Fred  too  had  grown  uneasy. 

"  The  elevated  must  be  making  slow  time,"  he  sought  to 
reassure  Elsie  and  himself. 

The  anxiety  of  their  parents  now  communicated  itself  to 
Ruth  and  Robert,  and  they  stood  pressing  their  faces  against 
the  window-pane  in  the  hope  of  catching  sight  of  their  grand- 
father. Presently  Bob  let  out  a  yell  of  joy.  Because  of  the 
blinding  snowstorm  he  had  not  recognized  his  grandfather 
until  Gottfried's  tall  form  stood  on  a  level  with  the  window. 
Gottfried  smiled  when  he  beheld  the  children  waiting  for  him 
and  waved  his  hand  to  them,  but  Ruth  and  Bob  were  already 
in  the  hall  and  held  the  door  wide  open. 

Thanks  to  Elsie,  an  understanding  had  sprung  up  between 
father  and  son  without  the  two  interchanging  a  word  on  the 
subject.  The  relation  between  the  two  had  resolved  itself  to 
this :  Gottfried  was  always  welcomed  in  his  son's  home,  but 
he  was  never  importuned.  He  came  and  went  as  he  pleased. 
Sometimes  he  would  come  on  Saturday  evening  and  stay  until 
Monday  morning.  Then  again  he  would  come  merely  for 
the  evening.  When  Fred  was  away  from  home  for  long,  Gott- 
fried would  come  and  help  Elsie  and  the  children  with  the 
rougher  work  about  the  house  —  they  still  lived  in  that  small 
family  house  in  the  Bronx.  In  the  winter  months  he  would 
bring  the  coal  up  from  the  basement  and  chop  kindling  wood 


174  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

for  them.  In  the  spring  he  would  fence  their  little  garden, 
dig  up  the  ground  and  make  the  seed  beds.  Gottfried  rather 
enjoyed  working  with  a  spade  or  ax,  digging  the  soil  and  ham- 
mering nails.  It  was  so  reminiscent  of  the  dim  past  back  in 
Germany. 

Part  of  this  tacit  understanding  between  father  and  son 
was  never  to  speak  of  politics.  As  if  by  agreement,  the  two 
always  veered  their  conversation  away  from  anything  that  was 
not  intimately  connected  with  their  daily  lives  and  personal 
affairs,  anything  that  might  stir  up  discussion.  Fred  suf- 
fered at  times  keenly  for  want  of  such  conversation.  There 
were  so  many  things  in  connection  with  his  work  that  he  was 
eager  to  talk  about  with  his  father,  but  he  feared  to  risk 
speaking  about  them  lest  an  unguarded  utterance  rouse  the 
old  antagonism  between  himself  and  his  parent.  The  field 
of  ideas  and  ideals  was  ground  dangerous  to  tread  on.  Gott- 
fried, too,  suffered  from  these  self-imposed  restrictions. 
There  were  times  when  he  felt  that  his  advice,  suggestions 
from  him,  might  be  of  value  to  Fred.  But  he  feared  to  ven- 
ture outside  the  field  of  commonplace  family  conversation. 
His  slumbering  feelings  might  wake  and  run  away  with  him. 

Gottfried  was  devoting  himself  to  his  grandchildren  with  a 
concern  and  tenderness  that  Fred  had  never  known  when  he 
was  a  child.  It  was  not  exactly  a  case  of  age  mellowing, 
softening  him.  Back  of  Conrad's  softness  was  helplessness, 
the  realization  of  his  own  impotence  and  a  tragic  submission 
to  fate.  America  had  trained  his  son  away  from  him.  Life 
had  broken  him  and  life  was  the  victor.  Like  a  good  fighter 
it  was  up  to  him  to  concede  victory  and  to  yield  to  his  oppo- 
nent gracefully.  And  he  did  this.  The  old  cigarmaker  — 
for  Gottfried  had  aged  much  in  the  two  and  a  half  years  since 
his  wife's  death  —  sought  now  to  make  the  most  of  the  few 
sunshiny  days  that  were  still  to  be  had.    His  son  was  a  man 


THE  MEASURE  OF  FRED  CONRAD        175 

and  was  a  thing  apart  from  him.  But  his  grandchildren  still 
clung  to  him.  They  loved  him,  and  he  delighted  in  them. 
He  might  as  well  drink  in  what  little  joy  this  attention  to 
Ruth  and  Robert  gave  him,  for  soon  they  too  would  outgrow 
play  —  and  him. 

So  he  would  lie  awake  for  hours  planning  little  surprises 
for  his  grandchildren.  He  would  watch  the  stands  for  nice 
tidbits  and  the  stores  for  new  toys  for  them.  His  pockets 
were  never  empty  when  he  came  to  his  son's  house. 

The  period  of  intense  preoccupation  with  union  affairs 
which  followed  closely  upon  his  mother's  death  did  not  per- 
mit Fred  to  follow  attentively  the  change  which  was  coming 
over  his  father.  But  Elsie  noticed  it  and  she  watched  its 
progress  guiltily.  She  could  never  quite  cease  blaming  her- 
self for  misjudging  her  father-in-law  soon  after  he  lost  his 
wife.  She  had  ascribed  his  disinclination  to  live  with  them 
to  a  desire  on  his  part  to  remarry  at  a  later  date,  when,  as  she 
now  saw  it,  nothing  was  further  from  Gottfried's  mind  than 
such  a  thought.  He  was  not  running  away  from  old  age. 
On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  to  be  welcoming  it  with  open  arms. 
Death  seemed  to  have  attached  him  closer  to  his  wife,  to  the 
memory  of  her.  Once  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  fall,  Fred 
proposed  that  they  ride  out  to  the  cemetery  to  visit  his 
mother's  grave.  When  they  got  there  they  found  that  they 
had  been  preceded.  There  was  a  fresh  wreath  on  the  grave 
and  the  shrubs  and  grass  had  been  trimmed  with  great  skill 
and  care.  His  father  had  left  the  cemetery  an  hour  before 
they  arrived. 

All  through  the  evening  Fred  was  tormented  by  an  irresist- 
ible desire  to  break  the  self-imposed  silence  about  matters  of 
importance.  He  was  consumed  with  longing  to  tell  his 
father  about  the  proposed  luncheon  the  next  day  with  the 
president  of  the  General  Labor  Federation  and  that  in  all 


176  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

likelihood  he  would  go  to  v/ork  for  that  body.  .  .  .  He  was 
not  in  agreement  with  all  of  Mark  Gelder's  policies  and  still 
less  with  his  prejudices.  ...  He  looked  upon  the  whole  thing 
as  a  job,  as  work  only.  ...  He  would  not  mix  in  the  Fed- 
eration's politics.  He  would  stick  to  organizing  work  pure 
and  simple.  The  Federation  was  in  need  of  just  that  sort  of 
an  organizer.     It  had  more  than  its  share  of  politicians.  .  .  . 

It  would  have  done  him  good  to  have  told  his  father  all 
this  and  to  have  got  Gottfried's  acquiescence,  if  not  consent, 
to  the  probable  change.  He  would  have  felt  so  much  better 
about  taking  the  job.  But  he  checked  himself  every  time  he 
attempted  to  speak.  They  had  been  dwelling  apart  so  long 
mentally  that  he  feared  it  would  almost  seem  theatrical  for 
him  to  attempt  to  become  confidential  with  his  father  once 
more.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  had  not  failed  to  observe  his  son's  knitted 
brow.  He  sensed  that  Fred  was  in  trouble  —  was  prob- 
ably struggling  with  a  momentous  decision.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  was  on  the  verge  of  giving  way.  He  was  yearn- 
ing for  a  heart  to  heart  talk  with  his  son,  to  see  how  the  boy 
was  getting  on,  what  problems  he  was  facing,  to  help  him  face 
or  solve  them.  It  would  ease  him  so  to  have  an  intimate 
talk  with  Fred  once  more.  But  then  his  caution  returned. 
There  was  so  little  joy  in  his  life  outside  of  these  evenings 
with  his  grandchildren.  Why  run  even  the  remotest  chance 
of  spoiling  such  an  evening  with  vain  if  not  painful  talk? 
Why?  Gottfried  stifled  his  yearnings.  He  and  Fred  spoke 
a  few  commonplaces  and  retired  for  the  night.  In  their 
separate  rooms  each  gritted  his  teeth  in  pain  and  went  on 
struggling  with  his  unspoken  thoughts. 

The  luncheon  the  next  day  proved  much  less  of  a  bugbear 
than  Fred  had  anticipated.  Mark  Gelder  had  not  come  alone 
to  take  the  measure  of  the  organizer  of  the  bakers.    He 


THE  MEASURE  OF  FRED  CONRAD        177 

brought  with  him  the  Federation's  vice-president,  Jim  Mor- 
gan. Gelder,  Morgan  and  Bayes  put  Conrad  through  a 
catechism  during  the  luncheon,  but  Fred  had  to  admit  that 
they  had  done  their  work  not  only  cleverly  but  tactfully,  very 
considerately. 

Gelder  was  of  course  interested  in  Fred  Conrad's  views  of 
the  socialists.  But  the  Federation's  president  was  always 
careful  in  his  choice  of  terms.  He  had  no  quarrel  with  the 
philosophy  of  socialism.  Philosophies,  whether  good  or  bad, 
are  in  themselves  of  no  consequence  in  life.  It  was  with  the 
spokesmen  of  socialism  that  he  had  a  bone  to  pick.  He  men- 
tioned several  labor  leaders  of  pronounced  socialist  tendencies 
who  were  just  then  attacking  him  hotly  in  print  and  on  the 
platform.  He  exposed  the  weak  sides  of  these  men  —  all  of 
them  were  alien  born  —  the  inability  of  most  of  them  to  speak 
the  English  language  smoothly,  their  ignorance  of  America, 
their  oratorical  flights  which  were  not  always  supported  by 
facts,  the  clumsy  foreign  atmosphere  which  attached  itself 
to  everything  they  said  or  did. 

Fred  listened  to  the  plaint  of  the  head  of  the  Federation 
sympathetically.  Most  of  what  Gelder  was  saying  coincided 
with  his  own  experience.  There  was  nothing  rabid  in  his 
statements,  nothing  to  take  exception  to.  It  sounded  more 
like  hard  practical  common  sense. 

While  Gelder  was  sounding  Conrad  with  regard  to  his 
politics,  the  Federation's  vice-president  was  searching  him  for 
something  different. 

Morgan  was  anxious  to  find  out  how  much  of  a  "  good 
fellow  "  Conrad  was  likely  to  prove.  Being  in  direct  charge 
of  the  organizers  of  the  General  Labor  Federation,  the  vice- 
president  knew  the  value  of  team  work.  It  was  essential  that 
there  be  cooperation  between  the  various  organizers,  for  it 
was  necessary  from  time  to  time  to  send  two  and  three  men 


178  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

to  the  same  city,  and  sometimes  even  on  the  same  job.  To 
get  the  best  work  out  of  them  under  such  circumstances  it  was 
vital  that  they  be  congenial  to  one  another. 

Two  days  after  Christmas  Fred  Conrad  received  the  offer 
of  a  job  as  organizer  for  the  General  Labor  Federation  of 
America,  as  he  had  expected.  He  accepted  by  wire,  as  in- 
structed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST 

THE  third  anniversary  of  Anna's  death  was  nearing  and 
Gottfried  experienced  great  difficulty  in  keeping  his 
thoughts  at  the  bench,  on  his  work.  Several  Sundays  in  suc- 
cession he  went  out  to  the  cemetery  and  after  every  such  visit 
to  his  wife's  resting  place  the  incongruity  of  his  position  was 
brought  home  to  him  more  painfully  than  ever.  ...  It  was 
as  if  Anna,  from  her  grave,  were  chiding,  reproaching  him, 
were  urging  him  to  be  more  tolerant  toward  his  son  —  their 
Fred.  .  .  . 

No,  he  had  no  business  staying  with  strangers.  He  was 
aware  of  the  sorrow  which  his  conduct  was  causing  Fred  and 
Elsie.  If  they  refrained  from  further  urging  him  to  live 
with  them,  it  was  solely  because  they  feared  their  persistency 
might  annoy  him.  ...  In  the  past  he  found  refuge  from 
these  vexatious  thoughts  in  exciting  plans  for  a  return  to 
socialist  activities  with  his  one-time  vigor.  .  .  .  Now  he  was 
becoming  sorely  aware  that  there  was  a  lack  of  driving  force 
back  of  his  thoughts,  that  they  were  not  going  over  into  ac- 
tion. ...  He  had  not  attended  a  socialist  meeting  since 
Anna's  death.  He  was  completely  out  of  the  movement. 
And  yet  these  had  been  stirring  years  in  the  history  of  the 
country.  A  war  had  been  successfully  fought  by  the  United 
States.  European  immigration  was  breaking  all  records  at 
Ellis  Island.  Great  strikes  were  rending  the  country  in  two. 
The  world  was  moving  ahead  feverishly.  .  .  . 

He  was  reading  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung  as  usual  one  Sunday 
morning  when  an  announcement  covering  half  the  page  stirred 

179 


i8o  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

him.  It  was  a  call  to  socialists  to  come  to  a  party  rally  at 
Freedom  Hall.  Freedom  Hall!  Gottfried  failed  to  recall 
the  place.  He  was  certain  he  had  never  been  there,  had 
never  spoken  there.  Then  it  came  to  him  as  if  in  a 
dream.  .  .  . 

For  years  the  socialist  workmen  of  Little  Germany  had 
been  planning  the  erection  of  a  Temple  of  Labor,  of  a  home 
for  their  societies  and  activities.  This  temple  was  to  be 
known  as  Freedom  Hall.  For  more  than  a  decade  money 
had  been  collected  for  this  home  at  every  gathering,  meeting, 
and  picnic  of  socialists.  Gottfried  had  himself  frequently 
contributed  to  it.  And  now  this  Freedom  Hall  was  a  reality. 
.  .  .  Mass  meetings  were  held  there.  He  must  go  up  that 
afternoon.  He  was  curious  to  see  the  building.  Besides,  it 
was  high  time  he  attended  a  socialist  meeting.  He  had 
stayed  away  from  the  movement  for  three  whole  years !  And 
he  had  been  thinking  all  the  time  that  he  was  getting  nearer 
to  socialist  activity.  .  .  . 

The  conductor  whom  he  had  asked  to  let  him  off  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Freedom  Hall  took  him  a  mile  beyond  his 
destination.  Gottfried  walked  the  distance  back  to  the  Hall 
and  when  he  got  there  found  the  meeting  in  progress. 

At  first  he  thought  he  was  in  the  wrong  place.  The  crowd 
was  different  from  any  of  the  socialist  audiences  he  was  ac- 
customed to.  There  was  here  a  preponderance  of  persons  of 
distinctly  non-Teutonic  appearance.  On  the  platform  a  man 
was  speaking  in  English.  The  chairman  of  the  meeting  was 
a  bearded  Yankee  who  looked  and  talked  like  a  professor. 
The  speaker  and  the  chairman  both  mentioned  the  word 
socialism  several  times  in  the  brief  few  minutes  in  which 
Gottfried  heard  the  former  finish  his  address  and  the  latter 
introduce  the  next  orator,  and  that  reassured  him,  but  not 
^r  long. 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  181 

The  next  speaker  was  a  lawyer.  He  spoke  with  the  same 
intonation  with  which  he  might  defend  a  prisoner  at  the  bar. 
As  nearly  as  Conrad  could  make  out,  the  speaker  was  dis- 
cussing certain  passages  from  Marx's  "Capital";  was  in- 
terpreting these  passages  for  the  benefit  of  the  audience,  and 
took  issue  with  certain  socialists  who  were  putting  a  different 
interpretation  upon  the  same  text.  The  address  was  entirely 
theoretic.  The  speaker  was  evidently  a  man  who  had  no 
connection  with  working  people  and  their  problems.  He 
discussed  wages,  rent  and  profit,  the  trinity  of  socialism,  in 
as  abstract  a  manner  as  a  scientist  might  speculate  about  a 
star.  There  was  just  about  as  much  warmth  in  his  speech 
as  there  is  in  a  text  book  on  astronomy.  Gottfried  was  glad 
when  the  chairman  announced  the  next  speaker. 

A  pale,  delicate  individual,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  just 
come  out  of  the  seclusion  of  a  cloister,  stepped  upon  the  plat- 
form. He  mentioned  the  word  socialism  in  the  very  first 
sentence,  but  his  speech  and  mannerisms  gave  Gottfried  the 
impression  that  the  man,  if  not  actually  a  clergyman,  had 
something  to  do  with  the  church,  and  his  instinctive  hatred 
of  clergy  at  once  set  him  on  guard.  He  strained  his  ear  to 
catch  every  word  the  speaker  was  saying.  He  had  missed 
his  name  and  was  sorry;  the  name  might  have  given  him  a 
clue  to  the  personality  of  the  speaker. 

His  suspicions  were  well  founded.  The  man  was  a 
clergyman.  He  traced  the  socialist  theories  to  the  New  Tes- 
tament. He  gave  a  sly  little  dig  to  those  who  thought  that 
in  the  socialism  of  Karl  Marx  they  had  discovered  something 
new.  They  were  wrong.  Long  before  Karl  Marx  there  was 
another  Great  Jew  —  and  a  socialist.  The  speaker's  liquid 
voice  rose  and  fell  with  emotion  when  he  spoke  of  the  era  of 
brotherhood  which  "  our  great  cause  "  would  usher  in.  As 
he  proceeded  his  address  took  on  more  and  more  the  color- 


i82  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

ing  of  a  sermon.  He  spoke  of  the  commandments,  the  dog- 
mas and  the  articles  of  faith  of  socialism.  Gottfried  Con- 
rad expected  almost  any  moment  to  hear  the  man  wind  up 
his  sermon-like  address  with  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  a 
prayer.  But  the  speaker  at  this  point  shifted  dramatically, 
and  instead  of  assuring  the  audience  of  a  reward  in  heaven, 
announced  that  obedience  to  the  principles  of  socialism  would 
bring  the  kingdom  of  God  upon  earth. 

"Who  was  this  speaker?"  Gottfried  asked  of  a  young 
man  who  sat  next  to  him. 

"  That,"  the  youth  responded  eagerly,  "  is  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Wesley,  Smythe  Wesley  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Church. 

"  Comrade  Wesley  has  been  converted  to  socialism  within 
the  last  two  months  and  this  is  his  first  public  appearance," 
the  youth  further  enlightened  Gottfried. 

"  Converted?  "  the  word  slipped  Gottfried's  tongue.  But 
he  had  already  surveyed  his  youthful  neighbor.  The  boy 
was  of  the  Wesley  kind  himself,  over-refined,  frail,  delicate, 
like  a  girl.  His  fingers  were  long,  his  hands  soft.  Gottfried 
suspected  the  boy  of  being  a  college  student  —  perhaps  even 
a  student  of  divinity  —  and  choked  all  further  questions  down 
his  throat.  His  old  hatred  of  the  "  parasitic  class  "  was 
aroused.  He  drew  into  himself  and  sat  through  the  rest 
of  the  meeting  without  saying  a  word.  Other  speakers  fol- 
lowed. They  were  men  of  various  nationalities.  For  the 
most  part  they  were  scholarly  individuals  from  the  profes- 
sional classes.  Nearly  every  one  had  a  penchant  for  dia- 
lectics. 

In  spite  of  their  vehemence  it  seemed  to  Gottfried  that 
there  was  a  lack  of  sincerity  in  some  of  the  speakers.  They 
were  moved  less  by  the  question  they  were  discussing  than 
by  the  desire  to  make  an  impression,  to  appear  cleverer  and 
more  authoritative  than  their  rivals.     In  the  case  of  one  of 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  183 

the  speakers  this  petty  egotism  and  personal  vanity  came  to 
the  surface  with  such  hideous  effrontery  that  the  blood  rushed 
to  Gottfried's  face.     He  was  sick  at  heart. 

When  he  was  in  the  street  again  he  stood  in  a  daze  for 
some  time.  He  had  read  in  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung  of  the 
eternal  splits  and  quarrels  within  the  socialist  movement. 
He  recalled,  too,  having  read  of  the  party's  reorganization, 
of  the  younger  element  taking  control.  So  that  was  the  new 
socialist  party.  .  .  .  That  was  the  successor  to  the  move- 
ment which  he,  Kolb  and  their  friends,  the  Lassalleans,  had 
nursed  and  fondled  and  fanned  into  life.  He  was  stirred 
as  he  had  not  been  in  years.  He  recalled  a  little  story  from 
the  second  or  third  reader.  It  told  of  a  duck  that  had  hatched 
a  little  chick  along  with  her  ducklings.  When  she  came  to 
a  pond  with  her  brood,  the  little  ducks  slid  into  the  water 
after  her.  But  the  chick  shied  and  would  not  be  coaxed  into 
the  pond.  Like  the  perplexed  mother  duck,  he  now  failed 
to  recognize  his  brood.  It  was  strange  to  him,  this  scholastic 
socialism  that  the  lawyers  and  ministers  had  kept  tossing 
from  the  tips  of  their  tongues  all  afternoon,  adroitly,  cleverly, 
as  a  football  player  would  toss  a  ball.  He  had  listened  to 
socialist  speeches  for  three  hours  and  had  not  heard  a  word 
or  suggestion  which  had  any  intimate  bearing  on  the  fate  of 
the  toiling  masses.  .  .  . 

The  news  that  Heinrich  Kolb  was  at  home  ill  was  brought 
to  him  by  Peter  Reinecke,  a  shopmate,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  Gottfried  did  not  go  home  to  supper,  but  took  a  bite  in 
a  restaurant  and  went  straight  to  the  Willmarts',  with  whom 
Kolb  was  rooming.  Mrs.  Willmart  greeted  Gottfried  cor- 
dially. He  was  an  old  friend  and  she  had  not  seen  him  in 
years.  He  had  not  been  to  visit  Kolb  since  his  wife's  death. 
To  Gottfried's  anxious  question  about  Kolb  she  whispered 


i84  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

that  the  editor  was  in  a  bad  way.  He  was  in  the  parlor. 
.  .  .  Gottfried  could  go  right  in. 

Illness  had  reduced  Heinrich  Kolb  to  a  shadow.  He  was 
sitting  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the  open  window,  a  comforter 
wrapped  about  his  limbs  despite  the  fact  that  it  was  a  warm 
summer  evening.  He  made  a  move  as  if  to  get  up  when  his 
friend  entered,  but  Gottfried  would  not  let  him  raise  him- 
self. After  the  first  greeting  he  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat 
opposite  Kolb.  Gottfried  was  so  moved  by  the  helplessness 
of  his  friend  that  he  was  unable  to  speak  for  some  moments. 
Kolb's  features  were  drawn  and  his  lips  bloodless.  The 
color  of  his  skin  was  the  color  of  death.  Only  his  gaze  re- 
tained its  youthful  enthusiasm.  In  his  eyes  softness  and 
humanity  were  fighting  their  way  to  the  surface  through  the 
undercurrent  of  suffering. 

Kolb  dismissed  questions  about  himself,  his  health,  rap- 
idly. What  was  there  to  say  about  it  ?  He  was  ill,  and  ill- 
ness was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  talk  about.  But  Gottfried, 
what  news  did  he  have?  He  was  eager  for  news.  Gott- 
fried's presence  was  so  reminiscent  of  bygone  days. 

The  editor  was  gazing  at  his  visitor  delightedly.  He  had 
not  had  an  intimate  talk  with  any  one  in  years.  Never  hav- 
ing married,  he  had  no  family;  and  the  friends  of  his  youth, 
the  comrades  of  another  day  had  dwindled  down  to  almost 
none.  They  had  families,  these  friends,  children  and  grand- 
children, and  each  now  confined  himself  to  his  own  imme- 
diate circle.  Family  life  does  narrow  a  man  so.  Gottf"ied 
was  the  least  settled  of  all  his  friends.  He  had  remained 
closer  to  the  ideals  of  their  youth  than  any  one  of  the  rest 
of  their  group  of  socialist  pioneers.  He  was  still  an  unbend- 
ing rebel,  uncompromising.  .  .  . 

They  were  talking  over  their  friends  —  the  movement  — 
Neither  was  the  same —    Things  had  changed  so.     Gott- 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  185 

fried  described  the  socialist  meeting  he  had  attended  at  Free- 
dom Hall,  the  audience  of  "  doctors,  lawyers  and  ministers  '* 
—  the  speeches.     He  did  not  hide  his  disappointment. 

Kolb  laughed  a  sad,  pathetic  laugh.  He  reached  over  to 
a  table  near  by,  took  hold  of  a  little  book,  opened  it  and 
read: 

"Grau,    theurer   Freund,    ist  alle   Theorie, 
Und  Griin  des  Leben's  goldner  Baum.  .  .  ." 

"  There  is  the  answer,  Gottfried."  Kolb  spoke  slowly, 
with  a  tragic  smile  about  his  thin,  bloodless  lips.  "  Theories 
are  gray,  life  is  green.  Life  is  the  victor.  It  is  the  final 
arbiter.  It  has  its  way  over  man,  over  everything.  Life 
will  have  the  things  it  wants.  It  will  have  the  sort  of  social- 
ism it  wants,  regardless  of  theories  —  your  theories,  my 
theories.  ..." 

Gottfried  protested.  It  was  not  socialism  the  younger 
generation  had  espoused,  not  the  working-class  socialism  that 
they  had  preached.  ...  It  was  but  a  shadow  of  the  great 
dream  they  had  once  dreamed,  the  great  ideal  they  cher- 
ished. .  .  . 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,"  said  Kolb,  "  but  then  it  is  probably 
the  sort  of  socialism  that  America  seems  to  want,  that  it  is 
able  to  digest  at  this  time. 

"  I  suppose,"  Kolb  continued  after  a  breathing  spell, 
"  every  reformer  comes  to  see  and  feel  the  things  you  and 
I  are  feeling  now  —  if  he  lives  long  enough.  I  wonder  if 
Jesus  would  recognize  in  the  Christianity  of  to-day  the  ideal 
for  which  He  once  bled  and  died.  Nor  is  the  irony  of  fate 
at  all  new.  .  .  .  Jesus  aimed  at  Jerusalem  and  captured 
Rome.  You  and  I  fought  priestcraft,  the  clergy,  with  the 
weapon  of  socialism.  Now  the  clergy  flock  into  the  socialist 
fold ;  they  are  becoming  its  apostles  and  preachers.  .  .  .  Yes, 
time  is  a  great  jester.  ..." 


i86  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

As  Kolb  was  speaking  patiently,  kindly,  ready  to  forgive 
every  one,  to  make  peace  with  the  world,  to  make  peace  even 
with  the  new  socialist  party  which  was  becoming  honey- 
combed with  aristocrats  and  was  led  by  clergymen,  Gottfried 
gazed  at  his  friend  with  mingled  feelings  of  pathos  and 
solemnity.  .  .  .  Poor  Heinrich!  The  service  and  sacrifices 
of  a  lifetime  to  an  ideal  were  nobly,  eloquently  written  in  the 
editor's  face  and  forehead.  And  now  he  was  dying,  alone, 
friendless.  An  intrepid  fighter  was  dying  —  and  he  was 
submissive  —    He  had  put  his  sword  into  the  scabbard.  .  .  . 

He  lapsed  into  memories.  He  forgot  what  it  was  they  had 
been  talking  about.  But  Kolb  came  back  to  it.  It  was  so 
long  since  he  had  talked  to  any  one,  since  he  had  been  asked 
for  an  opinion.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  coming  more  and  more  to  the  conclusion,"  the  edi- 
tor was  saying,  "  that  the  business  of  the  reformer  is  to  start 
things  only  —  the  finishing  Life  will  do.  The  business  of 
the  reformer  is  to  break  ground  and  sow  the  seed  of  new  ideas. 
What  the  harvest  will  be  he  would  better  not  try  to  determine 
beforehand.  Life,  nature,  a  million  forces  and  accidents  will 
determine  that.     With  the  sowing  his  calling  ends.  .  .  ." 

And  then  the  conversation  became  intimately  personal. 
The  two  friends  sat  for  a  long  time  talking  over  many  things 
that  had  been  a  part  of  them  during  the  thirty-five  years 
they  had  been  living,  agitating  and  fighting  side  by  side  in 
the  New  World.  Kolb  asked  about  Fred.  He  had  been 
watching  the  boy's  rise  as  a  labor  leader  and  was  mildly 
exhorting  Gottfried  not  to  appraise  too  lightly  his  son's  ef- 
forts in  behalf  of  the  organized  workers  of  the  country. 
Fred,  though  he  did  not  avow  himself  a  socialist,  was  a 
builder  of  progress,  aye,  even  of  socialist  progress  none  the 
less.  His  work  might  not  set  his  name  resounding  from  one 
end  of  the  country  to  the  other,  but  it  was  the  work  of  hu- 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  187 

manity  he  was  doing  in  raising  the  standard  of  living  for  the 
workers  wherever  he  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel. 

Upon  leaving  his  friend  Gottfried  did  not  go  straight 
horae,  but  walked  on  aimlessly  block  after  block.  The 
streets  teemed  with  men  and  children  though  it  was  nearing 
ten  o'clock;  everywhere  noise,  laughter.  A  sadness  seized 
him.  He  went  to  the  nearest  elevated  station.  He  would  go 
to  the  Bronx  to  spend  the  night  under  the  same  roof  with  his 
family  —  with  Fred.  The  rumbling  of  the  train  above  his 
head  sobered  him,  however.  It  was  so  late.  They  would 
no  doubt  be  sleeping  by  the  time  he  got  there.  What  excuse 
would  he  give  for  his  unexpected  visit?  He  started  back 
for  home ;  he  was  ashamed. 

It  was  shortly  after  his  visit  to  Heinrich  Kolb  that  Gott- 
fried Conrad  experienced  a  sudden  change  of  occupation. 
Otto  Bachman  —  Gottfried  was  still  living  with  the  Bach- 
mans  —  brought  word  one  evening  that  Jonas  Klein  was  go- 
ing to  St.  Louis  to  live  with  his  children. 

"  He  is  looking  for  a  buyer  for  his  store,"  Bachman  said 
as  they  were  finishing  their  meal. 

But  Conrad  was  not  in  the  least  aware  that  the  remark 
was  intended  for  his  special  benefit,  and  Bachman,  after  a 
short  interval,  blurted  out: 

"Why  don't  you  buy  it,  Gottfried?  It  is  a  good  little 
business.  There  is  hardly  any  work  connected  with  it;  bet- 
ter than  sticking  in  the  factory  all  your  life." 

Conrad  did  not  reply  at  once;  he  did  not  know  what  to 
say.  The  thought  of  quitting  the  factory  for  something  else 
had  not  come  to  him  before.  Bachman's  suggestion,  how- 
ever, never  left  him  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Jonas  Klein's  bookstore  was  an  institution  in  Little  Ger- 
many.    It  was  located  near  one  of  the  largest  halls  in  the 


i88  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

district  and  it  drew  its  trade  from  the  workingraen  and  so- 
cialists who  came  to  their  meetings  there.  In  the  pioneer 
days  of  the  German  settlement,  Klein's  store  was  the  library 
of  the  neighborhood.  Now  the  book  trade  in  it  was  neg- 
ligible. The  books  stood  on  the  shelves  well  to  the  rear  of 
the  store,  yellow  with  age  and  thick  with  the  dust  of  years. 
The  nearest  to  a  book  trade  Klein  had  was  the  selling  of 
socialist  pamphlets  and  socialist  periodicals  in  the  German 
language  and  the  German  newspapers.  The  chief  staples 
in  the  store  consisted  of  cigars,  tobacco,  and  the  personality 
of  the  owner. 

For  to  Jonas  Klein's  bookstore  men  did  not  come  merely 
to  buy  a  paper  or  cigar  and  go  out  again.  They  came  to 
talk  things  over  with  the  proprietor,  to  exchange  views,  to 
give  and  get  an  opinion.  Every  evening  the  place  was  filled 
with  men  and  the  heated  conversations  and  discussions  in  it 
lasted  well  into  the  night.  The  more  people  there  were  in 
the  store,  and  the  more  vehement  the  arguments  became,  the 
more  Jonas  Klein  felt  at  home.  He  would  indeed  feel  disap- 
pointed if  one  of  the  old-timers  in  the  district  would  come  in, 
get  his  paper  and  leave  without  exchanging  a  few  words  about 
the  day's  news  and  happenings  with  him. 

Conrad  and  Jonas  Klein  had  belonged  to  the  same  circle 
of  old-timers  which  was  now  fast  beginning  to  scatter.  He 
knew  the  store,  too;  had  been  there  many  a  time,  and  had 
had  many  a  discussion  with  its  proprietor.  As  he  lay  on 
his  bed  at  night  Gottfried  turned  the  matter  over  in  his 
mind.  It  was  not  a  bad  idea,  this  getting  hold  of  the  store. 
He  would  go  up  to  see  Klein.  The  daily  running  to  factory 
and  standing  at  the  bench  was  becoming  a  little  difficult.  A 
change  would  do  him  good.  He  wondered  how  it  would  feel 
to  have  all  day  to  himself  to  do  nothing,  practically  nothing. 
He  could  be  reading  if  he  wanted  to. 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  189 

As  Jonas  Klein  was  showing  him  around,  Gottfried  sud- 
denly stood  still  in  front  of  a  hidden  shelf  to  which  Klein  had 
not  called  his  attention,  and  a  spark  of  mischief  fairly  shone 
in  his  gray  eyes.  The  hidden  shelf  would  be  a  secret  of  his 
own  —  a  secret  from  his  grandchildren.  He  would  hide  all 
sorts  of  tidbits  there  and  when  Ruth  and  Robert  came  to 
visit  him  he  would  bring  these  things  out  and  his  grand- 
children would  not  know  whence  they  came.  Klein  showed 
him  the  living  quarters.  There  were  two  large  rooms  in  the 
back  of  the  store.  Gottfried  had  difficulty  in  suppressing 
his  joy.  He  would  fix  up  the  two  rooms  nicely,  he  would 
have  Elsie  fix  them  up  for  him,  so  that  the  children  could 
come  to  him  often  and  stay  with  him  for  days  at  a  time,  espe- 
cially when  they  did  not  go  to  school.  The  bargain  was 
closed  and  the  very  next  morning  Gottfried  took  his  place 
behind  the  counter  and  Jonas  Klein  was  introducing  his 
successor  to  those  of  his  customers  who  did  not  know  Con- 
rad. There  were  few  such,  however,  and  all  of  the  cus- 
tomers greeted  Gottfried  with  delight.  He  felt  at  home  in 
the  little  store  at  once.  For  the  first  time  in  many  years 
Gottfried  experienced  a  feeling  that  was  akin  to  rest  and 
happiness. 

From  time  to  time  he  ran  across  his  son's  name  in  the 
newspapers.  Fred  was  nearly  always  on  the  road  now.  He 
was  in  one  part  of  the  country  one  week  and  in  another  the 
next.  The  nineteenth  century  was  drawing  to  a  close  amid 
an  unprecedented  wave  of  social  restlessness  and  discontent. 
The  country  was  dotted  with  strikes  and  lockouts  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific.  There  was  bitter  and  desperate  war- 
fare on  both  sides. 

Fred  Conrad's  days  and  nights  were  occupied  with  con- 
ferences and  appointments.  The  heads  of  the  General  La- 
bor Federation  of  America  had  soon  discovered  that  his  great- 


190  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

est  usefulness  was  in  the  committee  rooms.  There  were 
plenty  of  oratorical  firebrands  in  the  labor  movement,  but 
there  were  few  men  who  could  sit  at  a  table  in  conference 
with  employers  and  uphold  labor's  interest  keenly  and  clearly 
and  at  the  same  time  inoffensively.  Fred  Conrad  was  one 
of  tlie  few  and  so  he  was  rushed  from  city  to  city  and  from 
conference  to  conference  to  word  the  final  agreement,  clinch 
the  final  settlement  between  workers  and  employers  and  make 
these  settlements  yield  to  the  worker  the  maximum  of  benefit 
they  possibly  could  be  made  to  yield. 

Often  when  Fred  Conrad  sat  in  conference  with  employers 
he  would  picture  Old  Man  Gardner  sitting  in  his  place. 
He  could  hear  the  old  man's  voice,  always  polite,  but  firm, 
arguing  a  point,  the  point  which  he,  Fred,  had  in  mind. 
Unconsciously  he  would  find  himself  acting  out  the  role 
which  he  pictured  the  dead  Gardner  as  acting.  The  men  at 
the  table,  who  presumed  that  they  came  from  a  superior 
sphere  to  that  of  the  workingmen  and  their  representatives, 
often  found  themselves  outdone  in  courtesy  and  breeding  by 
the  labor  leader.  Their  respect  for  Conrad  grew,  and  also 
their  apprehension.  It  was  always  pleasant  to  deal  with 
Fred  Conrad,  but  not  always  profitable.  With  a  more  blus- 
tering, but  a  less  keen  man  than  the  New  York  baker  they 
might  have  done  better  when  it  came  to  drawing  up  the 
actual  clauses  of  an  agreement. 

While  Fred  was  working  such  long  hours  that  he  would 
frequently  fall  asleep  with  his  clothes  on,  his  father  was  com- 
ing into  unprecedented  leisure.  There  was  little  trade  in 
Gottfried's  store  during  the  day,  only  in  the  evening.  So 
he  spent  his  days  reading,  and  thinking.  A  rest  from  the 
shop  and  the  cigarmaker's  bench  was  restoring  his  mental 
and  physical  poise.  The  nightly  gatherings  and  discussions 
at  the  store  had  put  an  end  to  his  brooding.     Gottfried  was 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  191 

himself  again.  He  was  reading  and  watching  the  signs  of 
the  times. 

Summer  went  and  autumn  came.  The  last  days  of  No- 
vember had  arrived  and  one  morning  four  inches  of  snow  lay 
on  the  ground.  Winter  was  here;  and  the  year  1899  was 
dying.  The  twentieth  century  was  knocking  at  the  gate. 
Gottfried  sat  in  front  of  the  burning  stove  and  took  stock 
of  the  world's  progress:  what  did  the  old  century  stand  for? 
And  what  was  the  mission  of  the  new  ?  He  was  thinking  in 
terms  of  humanity  once  more,  and  a  quiet  content  was  com- 
ing over  him. 

On  Christmas  Day  Gottfried  spent  only  a  few  hours  at 
his  son's  home.  Less  for  business  reasons  than  for  the  sake 
of  the  men  who  would  be  almost  homeless  if  he  stayed  away, 
he  came  back  before  nightfall  and  opened  the  store  for  the 
evening.  But  for  the  New  Year,  Fred  Conrad  exacted  a 
promise  from  his  father  that  he  would  keep  the  store  closed 
the  entire  day  and  would  spend  it  with  them.  On  the  eve 
of  the  New  Year  Fred  came  to  take  Gottfried  home  to  sup- 
per. 

There  were  joyful,  chattering  crowds  on  the  elevated,  but 
Fred  and  his  father  were  thinking.  Fred  had  rounded  out 
two  years  of  hard,  faithful  work  with  the  General  Labor 
Federation,  but  he  was  not  happy.  The  Federation  and  the 
men  at  the  head  of  it  were  not  as  congenial  as  he  had  hoped 
they  would  prove.  He  had  not  made  friends  among  them. 
They  did  not  mix  well  together,  and  this  was  beginning  to 
trouble  him.  ...  He  was  alone  in  the  Federation  and  at 
times  this  gave  him  a  chilly  feeling.  .  .  , 

Fred  wanted  to  tell  these  things  to  his  father,  but  Gott- 
fried was  deep  in  meditations  which  were  closely  akin  to 
Fred's  own  thoughts.  Gottfried,  too,  was  musing  over  the 
activities  of  his  son  for  the  past  two  years.    He  was  count- 


192  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

ing  —  the  lost  opportunities.  Fred  was  not  rising.  .  .  . 
There  had  been  more  than  one  occasion  when  Fred,  had  he 
spoken  the  right  word,  would  have  had  the  ear  of  the  coun- 
try, would  have  become  a  leader  of  the  masses  of  Lassallean 
dimensions.  But  Fred  had  missed  those  opportunities.  He 
had  not  seen  them.  His  son  was  a  good,  honest  enough 
labor  leader,  Gottfried  mused,  but  he  lacked  vision,  the 
prophetic  vision  which  he  had  once  hoped  his  son  would 
have,  the  vision  that  lifted  men  to  greatness,  to  leadership. 

Late  that  evening,  when  supper  was  over  and  Elsie  was 
putting  the  children  to  bed,  Fred  broke  the  chains  of  self- 
imposed  silence  and  abruptly  turned  the  conversation  to  the 
labor  movement.  He  sketched  to  his  father  the  strikes  he 
had  handled  in  the  preceding  two  years.  It  was  an  unprece- 
dented number.  The  employers  were  lining  up  against  the 
labor  movement  as  they  had  never  done  before.  Trouble- 
some times  were  ahead  and  there  was  no  promise  of  a  let-up. 
The  years  to  come  certainly  would  be  making  history  for  the 
labor  movement. 

"  And  for  mankind,"  Gottfried  added  with  suppressed 
feeling.  There  was  a  smoldering  fire  in  his  voice.  Fred 
looked  at  his  father  with  a  curious  uncertainty.  Was  his 
father  going  to  speak  once  more  as  in  the  old  days  when 
Mother  lived?  A  thrill  ran  through  him.  He  was  longing 
for  such  a  talk  from  his  father,  had  been  yearning  for  it  for 
years.  They  had  been  so  estranged  from  each  other.  Such 
a  talk  would  bring  them  closer.     He  wished  for  it  fervently. 

As  for  Gottfried,  he  was  like  a  lion  who  after  years  in 
captivity  had  smelled  blood  —  he  was  beyond  restraint.  He 
had  broken  the  invisible  seal  that  had  closed  his  lips  and 
now  he  was  speaking.  He  was  speaking  with  pain  and  sor- 
row. They  were  entering  a  new  century  and  a  great  era  in 
the  history  of  the  working  class,  in  the  history  of  mankind. 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  193 

And  his  Fred  must  realize  the  significance  of  the  new  cen- 
tury. It  would  be  criminal  'on  his,  Gottfried's,  part  not  to 
enlighten  his  son,  to  let  him  grope  in  the  darkness  much 
longer.     He  threw  caution  to  the  wind.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room.  Now  and 
then  he  would  stop  in  front  of  his  son  to  emphasize  a  point. 
Fred  looked  at  his  father  and  was  fascinated.  It  was  good 
to  feel  the  old  man's  burning  breath  upon  his  face  once 
more,  it  was  reminiscent  of  the  past,  of  the  happy  days  when 
his  mother  sat  by  their  side.     He  listened  speechlessly. 

"It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end,"  Gottfried  was  saying 
significantly,  "  and  you  would  better  make  no  mistake  about 
it.  Read  the  signs  of  the  times  aright.  Don't  think  that 
this  piling  up  of  strikes  is  accidental,  that  these  industrial 
upheavals  will  be  smoothed  over  and  that  everything  will 
return  to  its  former  state,  will  assume  its  wonted  stability. 
No!  These  strikes  are  the  beginning  of  a  titanic  struggle 
for  the  possession  of  the  earth  and  it  will  not  end  until  the 
masses  are  emancipated  and  are  the  masters  of  the  world." 

Elsie  had  entered  the  room,  but  Gottfried  went  on  with- 
out a  break. 

"  The  nineteenth  century  has  brought  political  equality  to 
mankind.  It  gave  political  democracy  to  the  world.  For  the 
world  is  democratic  to-day  in  spite  of  a  czar  or  a  kaiser.  The 
republican  spirit  is  at  work  in  every  country  and  it  is  but 
a  question  of  decades  when  this  spirit  will  dominate  the 
whole  earth. 

"  To  democratize  government  —  that  was  the  task  of  the 
preceding  century.  The  century  that  we  are  ushering  in  to- 
night, the  twentieth  century,  will  democratize  industry.  It 
will  usher  social  democracy  into  the  world.  The  nineteenth 
century  abolished  political  serfhood,  the  twentieth  century 
will    abolish   wage   slavery.     The   nineteenth   century   de- 


194  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

throned  feudal  lords  and  slave  holders;  the  twentieth  century 
will  dethrone  capitalism.  The  twentieth  century  will  be  the 
century  of  labor's  revolt  and  labor's  final  domination  of  the 
world." 

Gottfried  swayed  and  his  son  caught  him  in  his  arms.  A 
cry  from  Fred  brought  Elsie  to  his  side  and  they  laid  the  old 
man  on  the  couch.  It  was  a  trifling  spell  of  dizziness,  and 
a  sip  of  water  refreshed  Gottfried  and  brought  him  to.  But 
the  conversation  was  not  resumed.  Fred  and  Elsie  hovered 
about  him,  quivering  with  anxiety.  Gottfried,  too,  was  med- 
itating soberly.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  gave  way 
under  excitement.  .  .  . 

An  impending  strike  of  street-car  men  in  Cleveland  would 
keep  Fred  away  from  home  during  the  Easter  holidays  and 
Gottfried  planned  to  devote  himself  that  day  to  his  grand- 
children and  to  try  to  make  up  to  them  for  the  unavoidable 
absence  of  their  father.  He  came  to  his  son's  home  much 
earlier  than  was  his  wont  that  Sunday  morning,  but  Elsie 
and  the  children  were  already  out.  They  had  gone  to  church 
and  he  waited  for  the  better  part  of  two  hours  before  they 
came  back. 

Ruth  and  Robert  looked  fresh  and  trim  in  their  Easter 
clothes.  The  new  suit  made  Robert  seem  taller,  older  than 
he  was.  In  his  face  there  was  an  earnestness,  left  there  per- 
haps by  the  church  service,  or  possibly  it  was  the  absence 
of  his  father  that  clouded  the  holiday  for  the  boy.  Ruth  was 
sweet  and  tender  and,  as  was  usual  with  her,  clung  to  her 
grandfather  delightedly.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  was  not  interfering  with  the  bringing  up  of  the 
children  by  his  daughter-in-law,  with  their  religious  training. 
It  was  a  principle  with  Elsie  and  he  would  not  intervene.    He 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  195 

preferred  not  to  think  of  these  things;  it  was  not  leading 
anywhere.  .  .  . 

Elsie  would  spend  the  afternoon  home,  and  Gottfried 
started  off  for  Central  Park  with  Ruth  and  Robert.  It  was 
a  balmy  day  and  the  gray  tenements  turned  out  their  inhab- 
itants into  the  streets  by  the  hundred  thousands.  The  park 
was  crowded  with  men,  women  and  children,  all  foreign- 
looking,  talking  in  foreign  languages,  shouting,  gesticulating, 
drinking  in  the  mild  breeze,  welcoming  the  sun  and  basking 
in  its  warm  rays. 

They  found  a  bench  and  Gottfried  sat  silently  watching 
the  sea  of  faces  that  was  surging  back  and  forth.  Ruth  and 
Robert  were  running  up  and  down  the  grass,  Ruth  trying  to 
catch  her  brother  and  he  eluding  her.  Presently  they  came 
and  sat  down  near  their  grandfather.  The  earnestness  in 
Gottfried's  face  communicated  itself  to  the  children.  They 
too  were  watching  the  crowds,  studying  the  foreign  faces  and 
odd  dress,  trying  to  make  out  the  strange  foreign  sound  of  the 
languages  the  men  and  women  were  speaking. 

Suddenly  Ruth  moved  up  close  to  her  grandfather  and 
said: 

"  You  came  from  the  old  country  too,  Grandfather,  didn't 
you?" 

"  Yes,"  Gottfried  nodded. 

"  But  you  don't  look  like  them ;  you  look  like  us,'*  Ruth 
said  defensively. 

"  I  have  been  here  so  long,"  Gottfried  explained,  amused 
by  the  slight  apprehension  in  his  granddaughter's  voice.  It 
was  as  if  the  child  would  not  tolerate  having  any  one  con- 
found him,  her  grandfather,  with  the  men  about  them,  the 
"  foreigners." 

"  And  you  don't  talk  like  them,"    Robert's  voice  seemed  to 


196  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

brace  his  sister's  unspoken  argument.  "  You  talk  Eng- 
lish." 

Gottfried  did  not  answer.  He  was  thinking.  Yes,  he 
was  speaking  English,  had  spoken  it  for  a  long  time  now. 
He  tried  to  recall  for  how  long.  It  was  since  his  wife's 
death.  It  seemed  as  if  with  the  death  of  Anna  the  German 
language  had  also  died  for  him.  Except  for  the  interchange 
of  a  few  phrases  in  German  with  a  customer  he  had  no  one 
to  talk  the  language  to  now, 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  us  something  about  your  country, 
Grandpa  ?  Why  don't  you  ever  talk  about  it  ?  "  Robert 
asked.  Ruth  joined.  Would  Grandpa  tell  them  something 
of  the  country  he  came  from,  of  Germany?  She  saw  some 
pictures  of  German  houses  and  German  people  in  a  geog- 
raphy.    They  looked  so  quaint. 

For  answer  Gottfried  played  with  Ruth's  curls.  He  was 
thinking.  His  son  had  never  asked  him  to  talk  to  him 
about  Germany.  Germany,  Gottfried's  foreign  manners  and 
foreign  tongue,  were  too  much  of  a  reality  to  Fred.  They 
had  caused  his  boy  pain  too  frequently,  as  on  that  night  in 
Cooper  Union  when  the  whole  audience  jeered  and  laughed 
at  him,  Gottfried,  and  drove  him  out  of  the  hall  with  hisses. 
He  had  not  forgotten  that  night  and  the  humiliation  in 
Fred's  eyes. 

But  now  this  Germany  of  old,  and  he,  the  Gottfried  of  old, 
the  foreigner,  had  become  a  dim  distant  echo  to  himself  and 
a  myth  to  his  grandchildren.  They  were  anxious  to  hear 
of  that  distant,  almost  legendary,  life  of  his.  What  was  pain 
and  suffering  to  him  once,  would  be  but  an  interesting,  ex- 
citing story  to  Ruth  and  Robert.  .  .  .  That  was  the  way  of 
life.  .  .  .  Tears  and  suffering  of  the  sires  when  reduced  to 
story  form  furnish  thrills  and  pleasure  to  later  genera- 
tions. .  .  . 


KOLB  QUOTES  FAUST  197 

He  gazed  at  Ruth  and  more  especially  at  Robert  intently 
for  some  moments.  Fred's  course  in  life  was  irrevocable. 
His  son  had  not  come  up  to  his  dreams.  He  had  no  quarrel 
with  the  boy.  Fred  was  honest,  scrupulously  so,  and  at 
heart  was  an  idealist,  as  radical  perhaps  as  he,  Gottfried, 
was.  .  .  .  But  —  Fred  would  be  no  leader,  no  great  leader, 
at  any  rate.  He  had  given  up  all  hope  of  that.  As  to  the 
House  he  dreamed  of,  the  House  of  Conrad.  .  .  . 

As  Gottfried  gazed  at  his  grandchildren,  he  saw  his  dream, 
the  House  of  Conrad,  dissolve  into  mist.  Fred  was  not  doing 
anything  for  the  perpetuation  of  such  a  House.  It  was  not 
a  House  of  Conrad  but  a  House  of  Gardner  that  was  growing 
up  before  Gottfried's  very  eyes.  Elsie  was  exercising  the 
chief  influence  over  Ruth  and  Robert.  Elsie's  uncle,  the 
dead  Gardner,  had  molded  Elsie's  mind,  had  to  a  large  de- 
gree molded  Fred,  and  was  now  molding  his  grandchildren. 
.  .  .  But  was  he  himself  free  from  blame?  Fred  was  on 
the  road  most  of  the  time.  .  .  .  Was  it  not  up  to  him,  Gott- 
fried, to  take  a  hand  in  the  bringing  up  of  his  grandchildren, 
to  assist  in  furthering  the  House  of  his  desires?  Yes,  it  was 
high  time  he  began  to  look  after  Ruth  and  Robert,  to  mold 
their  thoughts,  direct  their  vision.  They  were  at  the  age 
when  children  get  away  from  their  mother's  apron  strings 
physically  and  mentally.  He  must  not  leave  it  to  chance, 
this  House  of  his.  He  must  take  a  hand  in  its  molding. 
Fred  was  out  of  his  reach  forever,  but  the  children    .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  him  that  his  grandchildren  could  be  brought 
nearer  to  him  in  thought  and  feeling  and  understanding  than 
his  son.  There  were  fewer  differences  between  him  and  his 
grandchildren  than  there  were  between  him  and  Fred  when 
his  son  was  at  the  age  of  Ruth  or  Robert.  .  .  .  He  had 
changed  much.  He  was  no  longer  the  Gottfried  of  old.  He 
had  learned  much.     The  school  of  life  had  taught  him  un- 


198  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

derstanding,  tolerance.  He  was  beginning  to  long  for  peace 
now,  peace  with  the  world,  with  himself.  He  was  not  as 
extravagant  in  his  expectations  as  he  had  formerly  been. 
And  he  was  nearer  to  the  heart  of  America  than  he  had  been 
in  Fred's  boyhood.  He  was  a  part  now  of  the  country  and 
its  civilization.  .  .  . 

Ruth  and  Robert  were  sitting  on  each  side  of  him.  Ruth 
was  still  eager  for  a  story  about  Germany.  .  .  .  Robert 
wished  Grandfather  to  tell  about  his  father's  boyhood. 
Mother  was  saying  the  other  day  that  when  Grandpa  came 
to  New  York  the  city  was  only  about  one  tenth  of  its  present 
size.     Would  Grandfather  tell  them  about  those  days? 

Gottfried  gazed  into  the  faces  of  Robert  and  Ruth  with 
a  tenderness  they  had  never  seen  there  before.  .  .  . 

"  Some  other  time,"  he  said,  "  I  will  tell  you.  Not  now. 
The  spring  sun  never  warms  for  long.  It  is  getting  colder 
already.  We  had  better  start  for  home  at  once.  Some  other 
time.  .  .  .» 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WIDOW 

THERE  was  a  sudden  falling  off  in  the  number  of 
strikes.  Citizen  organizations  sprang  up  in  every 
part  of  the  country  which  sought  to  act  as  intermediaries  be- 
tween employers  and  employees.  These  reform  agencies 
made  the  words  "  mediation  and  arbitration  "  their  slogan. 
Neither  capital  nor  labor  was  to  be  pushed  to  the  wall.  Both 
sides  must  agree  to  arbitrate  their  differences. 

This  lull  in  union  activity  afforded  Fred  Conrad  a  needed 
rest.  For  a  time,  at  least,  his  duties  were  lightened.  His, 
trips  through  the  country  for  the  Federation  were  neither  as 
long  nor  as  strenuous  as  the  preceding.  He  spent  more  time 
with  his  family.  It  was  a  breathing  spell  and  was  welcome. 
It  enabled  him  to  do  some  looking  about.  Hitherto  he  had 
known  only  the  work  side  of  the  General  Labor  Federation; 
he  was  now  getting  nearer  to  its  human  —  one  might  almost 
say  family  —  side.  This  intimate  view  of  the  Federation 
and  its  personnel  did  not  make  him  happier.  On  the  con- 
trary it  filled  him  with  restlessness  and  at  times  even  with 
melancholy,  for  it  brought  certain  fundamental  antipathies 
to  the  surface.  The  nearer  he  got  to  his  associates  the  greater 
the  distance  seemed  to  grow  between  them.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  disapprove  of  many  of  their  counsels,  though  he  still 
refrained  from  giving  utterance  to  such  disapproval;  he  was 
not  strong  enough  to  make  his  views  count.  For  certain  of 
the  Federation's  spokesmen  he  conceived  a  pronounced  dis- 

199 


200  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

like.  It  was  purely  a  matter  of  feeling,  of  taste;  his  and 
their  tastes  were  at  variance.  These  leaders  were  of  coarse 
texture;  there  was  no  fineness  about  them.  They  reduced 
everything  to  a  level  of  crude  materialism.  Their  interest  in 
the  working  class,  if  it  had  a  soul  once,  was  a  purely  mechan- 
ical matter  now  —  there  was  no  vision  to  it,  no  ideal. 

There  were  times  when  Fred  regretted  his  entry  into  the 
Federation.  He  should  have  stayed  with  the  bakers.  There 
was  a  bare  living  in  the  former  job,  it  was  true.  But  there 
was  peace  of  mind  and  an  untroubled  conscience.  It  was  the 
other  way  about  in  the  Federation. 

To  Fred  Conrad  the  calling  of  a  strike  was  a  responsibility 
and  an  ordeal  not  to  be  taken  lightly.  For  even  if  the  strike 
was  victorious,  it  meant  for  a  time  at  least  the  pinched  faces 
of  little  babies,  mothers  worn  with  excitement,  want,  fear. 
...  It  was  not  so  with  a  number  of  his  associates.  They 
were  different.  The  "  personal  equation "  which  counted 
for  so  much  with  him  was  frequently  lost  sight  of  by  them. 
They  seemed  to  lack  in  sympathy,  in  understanding.  Some 
of  them  even  enjoyed  a  strike  for  its  own  sake;  for  the  fight- 
ing, for  the  excitement.  It  gave  them  a  chance  to  assert 
their  authority  —  and,  having  long  played  the  part  of  the 
underdog,  they  loved  to  assert  authority  even  to  the  extent 
of  bullying  their  own  people.  A  strike  filled  them  with  self- 
importance.  It  meant  staying  at  hotels,  being  interviewed 
by  reporters,  seeing  their  names  in  the  newspapers.  The 
petty  tyranny  and  unbridled  vanity  of  these  men  on  such 
occasions  greatly  depressed  him. 

If  his  father  and  his  socialist  crowd  were  guilty,  now  and 
then,  of  permitting  their  idealism  to  break  loose  from  its 
anchor  in  the  solid  affairs  of  men,  many  of  his  colleagues 
in  the  labor  movement  were  going  to  the  other  extreme.  He 
came  to  know  several  labor  unions  that  maintained  their 


THE  WIDOW  201 

strength  largely  through  resort  to  violence  and  terrorism. 
Then  there  were  labor  leaders  who  sold  strikes  to  employers, 
who  were  in  the  pay  of  manufacturers. 

No  one  knew  the  tactics  of  these  selfish,  grasping  labor 
leaders  better  than  Mark  Gelder  and  Jim  Morgan.  Never- 
theless they  refrained  from  criticizing  them  publicly.  They 
feared  partly  the  violence  of  these  men  and  partly  the  press. 
If  the  newspapers  got  hold  of  these  facts  all  organized  labor 
would  be  besmirched.  The  good  would  suffer  with  the  bad; 
the  condemnation  of  union  labor  would  be  universal.  So 
Gelder  and  Morgan  kept  silent  and  permitted  this  corrupt 
and  lawless  element  in  the  trade  union  movement  to  roam 
at  will,  rather  than  expose  them  and  risk  scathing  publicity. 
"  Labor  —  right  or  wrong  "  was  their  slogan. 

Fred's  sense  of  quiet,  unostentatious  idealism,  of  whose  ex- 
istence he  was  scarcely  aware  formerly  —  he  had  always 
considered  himself  thoroughly  practical  —  was  sorely  tried 
by  many  other  things,  which,  while  they  had  no  direct  bear- 
ing on  his  work,  nevertheless  made  the  atmosphere  in  the 
Federation  less  and  less  agreeable.  It  was  an  open  secret 
that  a  number  of  his  associates  were  leading  loose  lives. 
Just  as  the  boys  he  had  known  in  his  youth  had  had  only 
girls  in  their  thoughts,  so  these  men  constantly  had  women 
on  their  minds,  not  their  wives,  but  other  women. 

Along  with  the  gossip  about  these  men  went,  of  course, 
various  stories  calculated  to  mitigate  and  even  excuse  their 
conduct.  In  the  first  place,  their  loyalty  to  the  cause  of  labor 
was  emphasized  most  eloquently.  And  to  a  degree  this  was 
true.  Nearly  all  of  the  labor  men  who  were  lax  in  their 
personal  affairs,  were  most  loyal  to  their  cause  and  very  de- 
pendable in  business  matters.  Then  came  the  stories  of  do- 
mestic infelicities.  Each  of  these  men  was  supposed  to  be 
unhappy  in  his  home  life;  the  wife  was  uncongenial,  failed 


202  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

to  take  an  interest  in  her  husband,  did  not  understand  him. 

There  was  truth  in  that  too.  Fred  Conrad  had  occasion  to 
meet  the  wives  of  several  of  these  labor  men  and  he  was 
astounded  at  the  utter  lack  of  congeniality  between  them  and 
their  husbands.  Husband  and  wife  were  like  strangers. 
There  was  such  an  utter  want  of  understanding,  of  com- 
radeship, between  them  that  Fred  wondered  how  two  per- 
sons having  so  little  in  common  could  ever  have  become  at- 
tached to  one  another  sufficiently  to  broach  the  subject  of 
marriage.  He  always  returned  home  after  such  an  occasion 
with  a  feeling  of  relief  and  gratitude.  He  was  thankful  for 
his  wife,  for  Elsie.  She  not  only  shared  every  one  of  his 
thoughts;  she  often  anticipated  them.  She  was  such  a  faith- 
ful companion,  so  happy  in  his  triumphs,  and  when  things 
did  not  go  well  with  him  she  was  more  of  a  comfort  than 
ever. 

And  his  children  —  there  was  such  understanding  be- 
tween them,  such  harmony.  They  were  growing  up  to  be 
such  affable,  refined  youngsters,  his  Ruth  and  Robert.  When 
he  was  in  the  midst  of  his  family  circle  Fred  would  often  fall 
to  musing  about  these  men,  most  of  whom  were  older  than 
he  —  middle-aged  or  elderly  men  running  loose  with  women 
and  being  talked  about  —  and  pity  would  seize  him.  He 
could  not  help  feeling  in  such  moments  of  serene  domestic 
bliss  that  the  life  of  each  of  these  must  be  an  abyss,  a  tragic, 
horrible  nightmare.  It  could  not  be  otherwise.  Could  there 
be  a  more  ghastly  punishment  than  not  to  have  a  congenial 
home,  than  to  have  to  reduce  man's  most  sacred,  intimate 
feelings  to  barter?  .  .  .  And  when  he  and  Elsie  were  left 
alone  at  such  moments  he  would  embrace  her  with  a  tender- 
ness and  devotion  that  invariably  brought  tears  to  her 
eyes.  ... 


THE  WIDOW  203 

He  had  to  work  with  these  people,  however,  and  sought  to 
adapt  himself  more  or  less  to  these  conditions.  He  assumed 
an  attitude  of  complete  disinterestedness  in  all  personal  mat- 
ters. That  was  the  safest  course.  He  gave  no  attention  to 
gossip.  He  wished  to  hear  nothing  about  the  private  life 
of  his  colleagues.  He  was  not  sitting  in  judgment  over  any 
one.  He  came  to  see  more  and  more  truth  in  what  his  father 
once  told  him  about  man  being  largely  the  product  of  his 
environment.  The  newspapers  were  daily  bringing  to  light 
family  skeletons  in  high  places.  Society  was  steeped  in 
filth,  corruption  and  degeneracy.  The  labor  movement,  being 
a  part  of  this  demoralized  society,  had  its  own  skeletons. 
One  could  hardly  expect  anything  else. 

But  Fred  Conrad  was  to  have  his  fiery  ordeal. 

His  aloofness  from  all  matters  pertaining  to  the  personal 
side  of  his  associates  had  its  penalty;  it  made  him  poor  com- 
pany. The  other  organizers  came  to  realize  that  a  trip  with 
Conrad  as  a  working  partner  was  a  one-sided  affair  —  it  was 
all  work  and  no  play.  Of  course  they  knew  that  Conrad 
was  "  safe."  He  was  not  a  man  to  gossip  or  backbite;  he 
was  not  a  telltale.  They  could  go  their  way  without  the 
slightest  interference  —  and  they  did. 

But  this  had  its  unpleasant  and  even  embarrassing  fea- 
tures. One  of  these  was  the  matter  of  expense.  Fred  Con- 
rad's expense  bills  were  bone  dry,  and  these  men,  while  they 
were  strictly  honest  in  money  matters,  yet  had  certain  unwrit- 
ten privileges  in  the  matter  of  expenditures  which  they  made 
good  use  of.  Many  a  little  present  which  a  labor  man 
bought  for  a  "  lady  friend,"  the  expense  of  many  an  outing, 
was  charged  up  to  the  Federation  under  the  heading  of  "  in- 
cidental expenses,"  which  a  knowing  auditor  O.  K.'d  with- 
out question.     In  Fred  Conrad's  company  it  was  extremely 


204  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

embarrassing  to  ring  in  such  blind  expenses  into  one's  ex- 
pense bill;  and  when  one  had  to  pay  for  one's  diversion  out 
of  one's  own  pocket  the  fun  was  spoiled.  .  .  . 

This  "  one-sidedness  "  of  Fred  Conrad  did  not  escape  Jim 
Morgan  —  such  things  never  escaped  the  Federation's  vice- 
president.  He  was  there  to  have  teamwork  in  the  labor 
movement  and  his  keen  eye  soon  detected  the  slightest  hitch. 
Fred  Conrad's  want  of  sociability  worried  Morgan.  But 
Mark  Gelder  looked  upon  Fred's  "  one-sidedness "  as  a 
teacher  looks  upon  the  poor  deportment  of  a  brilliant  pupil  — 
he  overlooked  it.  Conrad,  to  use  a  current  phrase,  always 
came  back  with  the  goods.  Every  one  of  his  trips  brought 
results.  The  Federation  needed  just  that  sort  of  man. 
There  were  many  who  could  carry  out  orders,  but  Fred  Con- 
rad threw  light  upon  everything  he  came  in  contact  with. 
So  he  was  left  undisturbed. 

Just  then  the  president  of  the  Federation  had  Fred  in  mind 
for  a  special  job.  He  was  holding  his  plan  in  abeyance  be- 
cause he  was  looking  for  an  organizer  who  would  be  a  good 
working  mate  for  Conrad  on  this  mission.  He  did  not  see 
such  a  man  among  his  own  staff  of  organizers  and  had  to 
go  outside  for  him.  He  found  the  man  in  Bill  Triggs,  the 
vice-president  of  the  Transport  Workers'  Union. 

Conrad  and  Triggs  were  to  go  down  to  Chicago  to  find 
out  what  effect  the  new  immigration  from  Slavic  Europe  and 
Hungary  was  having  upon  union  labor.  Gelder  supplied 
them  with  a  few  details;  the  rest  they  were  to  find  out  for 
themselves. 

Late  that  evening  Bill  Triggs,  in  the  barroom  of  the  Kai- 
serhof,  was  telling  Al  Ryan,  a  lifelong  friend  of  his,  and 
one  of  the  organizers  of  the  Federation,  of  the  proposed  trip 
to  Chicago  and  how  pleased  he  was  with  it.  He  wanted  to 
see  that  city  again;  had  not  been  there  in  two  years.    Ryan 


THE  WIDOW  205 

shared  his  friend's  enthusiasm  for  the  Windy  City  and 
thought  the  job  splendid.  There  was  no  definite  task  to 
achieve,  no  strike  to  guide  through,  no  victory  to  fight  for. 
It  was  a  mere  scouting  proposition,  a  regular  visit  to  the  old 
town,  one  might  call  it.  When  Bill  Triggs  mentioned  his 
working  partner,  however,  Ryan's  enthusiasm  took  an  un- 
mistakable drop. 

"  What's  the  trouble,  Al?  "  Triggs  asked. 

"  Nothing.     Only  I  don't  like  that  man  Conrad." 

Triggs  was  greatly  surprised;  Gelder  had  spoken  highly 
of  Fred. 

"He  is  a  good  enough  organizer,"  Al  Ryan  explained. 
"  But  a  trip  with  him  is  like  a  funeral ;  he  is  stricter  than  a 
nun." 

"  Oh,"  Triggs  said  with  a  significant  gleam  in  his  slightly 
bleared  eyes.     He  had  been  drinking  steadily  all  evening. 

"  Well,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  "  if  that's  the  kind  of 
man  Conrad  is,  then  I  think  I  shall  like  the  job  all  the  more. 
I  like  to  break  them  in.  .  .  ." 

Al  Ryan  ignored  the  ripple  in  his  friend's  voice  and  coun- 
seled earnestly. 

"  I  would  leave  him  alone  if  I  were  you.  Bill,"  he  said. 
"  Fred  Conrad  is  a  queer  sort.  I  guess  it  runs  in  the  fam- 
ily. His  father,  too,  is  queer  —  one  of  those  eccentric  Dutch- 
men." 

"  There  you  go  again  with  your  prejudice  against  the  Ger- 
mans," Triggs  bantered  him.  "  I  tell  you,  Al,  they  are  all 
right.  I  know  some  mighty  good  fellows  among  them  — 
and  the  girls  are  better  still." 

He  laughed  aloud  at  his  own  joke,  but  Ryan  was  in  no 
mood  for  hilarity.  He  had  been  out  with  Fred  Conrad  on 
business  trips  a  number  of  times  and  had  had  his  "  disagree- 
able "  experiences  with  him.    Ryan  was  one  of  the  men 


2o6  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

with  whom  Conrad  especially  avoided  going  into  other  than 
business  relations. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  and  Al  reminded  his  friend  that 
if  he  meant  to  take  that  nine  o'clock  train  for  Chicago  the 
next  morning  it  was  time  for  him  to  turn  in.  The  friends 
parted,  Al  Ryan  starting  for  home  while  Bill  Triggs  climbed 
two  flights  of  stairs  to  his  room. 

The  vice-president  of  the  Transport  Workers  was  a  man 
in  the  forties.  He  was  well  built  and,  in  spite  of  his  heavy 
drinking,  was  robust.  His  job  agreed  with  him.  The  ex- 
citement of  his  life,  the  change  from  place  to  place,  the  fre- 
quent being  in  the  limelight,  kept  him  young.  He  was  mar- 
ried and  had  two  children  of  whom  he  was  very  fond.  He 
was  nice  to  his  wife,  and  his  children  did  not  want  for  any- 
thing. But  in  the  matter  of  morals  Bill  Triggs  had  fol- 
lowed his  own  inclinations.  He  had  thrown  all  restraint  to 
the  wind. 

At  first  he  had  had  his  qualms.  In  time,  however,  his 
brooding  had  crystallized  into  a  philosophy.  He  had  talked 
to  people,  read  a  few  books,  had  gone  to  hear  radical  speak- 
ers, and  gradually  his  feeling  of  guilt  disappeared  and  in 
its  place  came  a  feeling  of  justification.  He  did  not  believe 
in  God,  not  in  a  personal  God  that  looked  after  your  actions 
and  wrote  them  down  in  a  big  ledger.  In  the  books  he  had 
read  it  was  explicitly  and  rather  convincingly  shown  that 
most  of  the  institutions  we  are  taught  to  regard  as  sacred  and 
God-given  are  in  reality  the  handiwork  of  man.  Most  of 
the  rules  of  conduct  were  laid  down  by  men  in  past  genera- 
tions, and  other  men  —  stronger  men  —  of  to-day  were  often 
disregarding  these  rules  and  following  their  own  choices  and 
dictates.  Such  men  were  a  law  unto  themselves.  And  the 
more  he  thought  about  it,  the  more  he  felt  convinced  that 
these  men  were  right.    There  was  little  in  life  outside  the 


THE  WIDOW  207 

pleasures  one  could  derive  from  it,  and  he  yielded  himself  to 
the  pleasures  of  life.  His  unbounded  energy  and  almost  boy- 
ish restlessness  made  him  many  friends.  He  was  welcome 
everywhere. 

They  had  put  in  a  week's  work  in  Chicago.  Fred  Conrad 
had  traced  the  beast  to  his  lair,  as  he  told  Triggs.  He  had 
spent  days  and  nights  studying  the  immigrant  laborers  at 
their  homes,  in  the  little  colonies  which  surrounded  the  plant 
of  the  Pan-American  Steel  Company.  He  watched  them 
going  to  and  coming  from  work.  He  mingled  with  them  in 
the  saloons  at  lunch  time.  He  learned  what  their  pay  was 
and  what  their  hours  were.  He  was  satisfied  that  he  had 
the  problem  these  unskilled  laborers  represented  reduced  to 
exact  dimensions.  His  mind  was  made  up  as  to  the  proper 
attitude  the  Federation  should  take  toward  these  workers. 
His  mission  in  Chicago  was  accomplished;  their  work  was 
practically  finished.  Triggs,  too,  had  had  all  the  time  he 
needed  to  fill  his  part  of  the  bill.  They  would  start  for 
Washington  within  a  day  or  two. 

There  was  an  evening  ahead  of  them,  a  warm  September 
evening,  and  their  calendar  was  blank.  Triggs  mulled  over 
this  fact  as  he  sat  in  the  hotel  lobby  sniffing  contemptuously 
the  stuffy  atmosphere  of  the  room.  Fred  was  sitting  in  a 
large  leather  chair  reading  an  evening  paper  and  seemingly 
was  quite  comfortable  and  indifferent.  As  he  observed  his 
road  partner,  a  feeling  of  envy  stole  over  Triggs.  It  must 
be  good,  he  mused,  to  be  of  a  disposition  like  Conrad's,  to 
be  calm  and  at  rest  on  such  a  warm  September  evening;  not 
to  want  any  compensation  in  the  way  of  pleasure  and  excite- 
ment for  the  eight  days  of  hard  work  they  had  put  in. 

Bill  Triggs  had  been  thinking  all  day  long  about  the 
evening.  He  knew  two  or  three  places  where  he  would  be 
welcome.     If  Fred  Conrad  were  not  such  a  poor  specimen  of 


2o8  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

a  sport,  there  was  no  end  of  fun  they  could  have.  Of 
course,  he  could  leave  Conrad  and  go  by  himself.  But  it 
hurt  his  pride  to  slink  away  from  the  hotel.  It  looked  cheap 
and  the  next  morning  he  would  feel  as  if  he  owed  Conrad  an 
apology.  .  .  .  Triggs  grew  morose  and  fidgety.  Fred  no- 
ticed this  and  laid  aside  the  paper. 

He  looked  like  any  one  of  a  thousand  men  Triggs  had 
known.  There  were  men  who  had  just  as  austere  an  appear- 
ance as  Fred,  but  who,  upon  occasion,  could  outdo  the  devil. 
Triggs  wondered  what  Conrad  would  do  if  placed  in  cer- 
tain circumstances.  Still  water  runs  deep,  he  mused.  He 
had  never  talked  religion  to  Fred,  but  he  had  heard  that 
Conrad  was  "  no  fool  "  in  such  matters.  He  certainly  must 
realize,  Triggs  mused,  that  life  is  not  going  to  pay  him  in 
different  coin  than  it  was  paying  others.  .  .  .  Triggs'  in- 
stinct for  mischief  was  rising  within  him.  It  was  fortifying 
itself  with  seeming  reason.  Should  he  risk  taking  Conrad 
along  with  him  ?     He  would ;  he'd  take  a  chance.  .  .  . 

He  suggested  that  they  take  a  trolley  ride  and  get  out  into 
the  open.  Fred  agreed.  They  started  northward  and  were 
soon  speeding  through  the  heart  of  an  Italian  district.  Con- 
rad watched  the  crowds  of  foreign-looking  men  and  women 
who  lined  the  sidewalks,  observing,  thinking.  Every  few 
minutes  the  conductor  sounded  the  gong  and  a  flock  of  little 
children,  who  were  playing  in  the  street,  scampered  in  every 
direction  for  safety.  Triggs,  in  turn,  was  studying  his  part- 
ner closely  and  with  a  gleam  of  satisfaction.  What  a  laugh 
he  would  have  at  Al  Ryan  and  the  others  who  looked  upon 
Conrad  as  a  little  tin  god.    The  fools ! 

At  a  transfer  point  Triggs  stepped  into  a  drug  store  to 
telephone.  After  a  short  ride  on  the  second  car  they  got  out. 
They  strolled  along  for  several  blocks.  The  residential  at- 
mosphere of  the  streets,  as  distinguished  from  the  slums 


THE  WIDOW  209 

through  which  they  had  passed,  was  pleasing.  The  middle- 
class  homes,  with  the  well-cared  for  lawns,  looked  decidedly 
attractive. 

Triggs,  apparently  by  accident,  discovered  that  they  were 
but  a  short  distance  from  where  some  friends  of  his  lived. 
They  were  in  plenty  of  time  for  a  visit.  Would  Fred  care  to 
accompany  him?  Fred  had  no  reason  to  cherish  suspicions 
and  agreed  to  everything  Triggs  proposed.  They  turned 
into  a  side  street  and  stepped  upon  the  porch  of  a  neat  two- 
story  brick  building.     Triggs  rang  the  bell. 

A  matron  in  the  forties  opened  the  door  for  them.  She 
greeted  Triggs  cordially  and  like  an  old  friend.  It  was  good 
to  hear  his  voice  again,  she  said.  Triggs  introduced  Conrad 
and  Mrs.  Myers  —  that  was  the  woman's  name  —  assured 
him  that  he  was  welcome.  She  led  the  way  into  the  parlor 
and  after  pointing  out  a  comfortable  seat  for  Conrad,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  question  Triggs  about  friends  in  New  York,  Wash- 
ington, Philadelphia.  She  apologized  to  Conrad  for  neg- 
lecting him;  he  must  excuse  her,  the  desire  to  hear  from 
Triggs  about  mutual  friends  in  various  parts  of  the  country 
was  interfering  with  her  duties  as  hostess,  but  she  wouldn't 
be  long. 

Mrs.  Myers  stepped  into  the  next  room  and  Fred  heard  her 
telephone  to  a  friend  of  hers,  a  Mrs.  Stengel.  She  re- 
appeared with  two  bottles  of  beer,  a  tray  and  glasses.  As  she 
was  bringing  the  tray  toward  him,  Conrad  observed  her 
closely.  She  had  a  remarkably  fair  face.  Her  complexion 
was  clear;  her  features,  while  showing  unmistakable  strength 
of  outline,  glowed  with  seeming  refinement  and  gentleness. 
She  was  magnificently  built.  She  was  not  forward,  but  there 
was  a  natural  voluptuousness  about  her  full  white  neck,  her 
well-rounded  bust  and  ample  hips.  Her  carriage  and  mam 
ners  were  those  of  an  aristocrat.     She  seemed  decidedly  a 


210  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

woman  of  leisure.  She  did  not  look  like  the  wife  of  a  work- 
ingraan,  not  even  of  a  labor  leader.  She  looked  too  much 
petted,  too  well  taken  care  of,  too  perfectly  preserved  for  that. 
The  house  was  furnished  after  the  fashion  of  wealth.  The 
furniture,  drapery,  curtains,  bric-a-brac  —  all  were  expen- 
sive and  out  of  the  workingman's  reach.  Fred  wondered  who 
the  woman  might  be,  what  relation  she  was  to  Triggs.  She 
had  spoken  so  familiarly  about  some  of  the  best-known  labor 
leaders  in  the  country,  mentioning  them  by  their  first  names. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door  and  Mrs.  Stengel  was  ushered 
in.  She  was  a  brunette  —  that  was  the  first  thing  one  noticed 
about  her.  Her  hair,  the  kind  German  poets  delight  in  de- 
scribing as  raven  black,  was  parted  in  the  middle  and  gave 
her  an  appearance  of  child-like  innocence  and  purity.  Fred 
had  once  had  a  school-teacher  who  looked  like  this  woman  and 
he  had  been  very  fond  of  her.  She  was  German,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  pioneer,  a  'forty-eighter,  and  she  was  kind  to  the  chil- 
dren, especially  the  children  of  aliens.  Instinctively  Fred 
was  well  disposed  toward  this  Mrs.  Stengel  and  upon  being 
introduced  to  her,  shook  her  hand  warmly.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ant memory  of  his  childhood  that  the  sight  of  her  had  con- 
jured up. 

Mrs.  Myers  left  Mrs.  Stengel  to  entertain  the  men  while 
she  went  into  the  dining-room  to  improvise  a  little  lunch  for 
them.  She  still  stuck  to  the  good  old  German  custom,  she 
explained,  and  with  her  entertainment  always  began  with 
eating.  But  Conrad  soon  discovered  that  the  eating  was  in- 
significant beside  the  drinking.  Bill  Triggs  was  gulping 
down  glass  after  glass  of  a  French  wine.  Mrs.  Myers  and 
even  the  demure  Mrs.  Stengel,  it  seemed  to  him,  were  drink- 
ing far  beyond  the  proper  limit  for  a  woman  to  drink. 

Fred  drank  moderately  on  all  occasions.  Here  he  drank 
even  less  than  usual.     He  felt  apologetic  for  participating 


THE  WIDOW  211 

in  the  little  celebration  at  all.  He  did  not  know  the  people. 
They  were  friends  of  Triggs,  but  that  did  not  justify  his  mak- 
ing himself  at  home  there  as  if  they  were  his  friends. 

Triggs  gulped  down  a  large  glass  of  wine,  and  Fred  ob- 
served his  bulging  eyes  with  alarm.  He  sought  to  convey  to 
his  friend  a  warning  to  stop  drinking,  or  he  would  have  to  be 
taken  to  the  hotel  in  a  cab,  and  that  would  be  disgraceful  in 
company. 

The  next  instant,  however,  Triggs'  arms  closed  about  Mrs. 
Myers'  neck  and  he  kissed  her  repeatedly  on  the  mouth.  Mrs. 
Myers  tried  to  free  herself  from  his  embrace,  but  not  too 
energetically.  She  feigned  embarrassment  and  scolded  him, 
but  there  was  something  in  her  words  and  actions  that  belied 
her  embarrassment  and  her  displeasure.  Mrs.  Stengel 
clapped  her  hands  and,  laughing  heartily,  turned  a  look  full 
of  significance  upon  Fred.  In  a  subtle  and  seemingly  unin- 
tentional manner  she  swung  about  so  that  her  side  rested 
against  Fred's  arm,  against  his  chest. 

The  relations  between  Triggs  and  Mrs.  Myers  flashed  upon 
Fred  Conrad,  but  he  still  could  not  bring  himself  to  desig- 
nate the  woman  and  the  place  by  their  proper  names.  It 
seemed  unthinkable  that  they  were  —  that  he  was  in  a  house 

—  it  must  be  something  else  —    What? 

Had  Fred  Conrad  been  less  self  centered  and  less  indiffer- 
ent to  the  stories  that  were  floating  around  in  labor  circles  — 
stories  of  good  times  in  Pittsburgh  and  of  larks  in  Chicago 

—  the  personality  of  Mrs.  Myers,  her  home  and  her  friends, 
would  have  been  no  mystery  to  him.  Mrs.  Myers  was  known 
in  the  labor  movement  widely,  though  exclusively,  as  "  the 
widow."  An  introduction  to  "  the  widow  "  even  after  one 
knew  of  her  character  was  not  easily  obtained.  She  was  not 
of  the  common  herd.    Only  select  men  enjoyed  her  favor. 

Mrs.  Myers  was  the  widow  of  Bert  Myers,  who  in  his  day 


212  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

was  a  noted  labor  leader  in  Chicago.  Before  her  marriage, 
she  was  an  actress  attached  to  a  German  stock  company. 
When  Bert  Myers  married  her  he  saw  at  once  the  need  of 
extending  his  income  —  if  he  was  to  keep  his  wife  —  and  he 
extended  it.  After  Bert  Myers'  death  —  he  was  shot  in  a 
brawl  —  there  were  stories  in  the  newspapers  about  graft  he 
collected  from  employers  —  blackmail  and  the  like.  How- 
ever, as  he  was  dead,  that  was  the  end  of  things. 

The  union  gave  Bert  Myers  a  splendid  funeral.  A  neat 
sum  of  money  was  voted  to  his  widow,  and  Charlie  Fry,  a 
lifelong  friend  of  Bert's,  headed  the  committee  which  took  the 
money  and  condolences  up  to  Mrs.  Myers.  The  Myers  had 
had  no  children  and  that  was  something  to  be  thankful  for, 
under  the  circumstances.  Thereafter  Fry  was  a  frequent 
visitor  at  the  Myers  home. 

One  evening,  a  month  after  her  husband's  death,  Fry  found 
Mrs.  Myers  at  her  home,  in  low  spirits.  It  was  raining  and 
the  gloom  of  the  elements  readily  communicated  itself  to  the 
human  mind.  Fry  was  explaining  these  things  to  Mrs.  Myers 
and  was  urging  her  to  cease  worrying.  It  was  imperative 
that  she  cease  wearing  herself  out.  It  would  ruin  her  health. 
And  health  was  just  exactly  what  she  needed.  God  knows 
she  did,  if  she  were  to  take  care  of  herself  —  a  woman  alone 
in  the  world.  .  .  . 

At  the  last  words,  spoken  by  Fry  in  great  sorrow,  Mrs. 
Myers  could  not  keep  back  her  emotion.  She  wept.  Fry 
comforted  her,  and  in  that  way  the  greater  part  of  the  evening 
passed.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Fry  rose  to  go.  Mrs. 
Myers  went  with  him  to  the  window.  The  rain  was  beating 
savagely  against  the  porch  and  glass  panes.  The  warmth 
of  the  house  felt  good.  She  shuddered  lightly;  there  was  just 
the  least  coyness  in  her  shuddering;  she  was  irresistible.  Fry 
clasped  her  in  his  arms.    Her  head  drooped  upon  his  breast 


THE  WIDOW  213 

like  that  of  a  tired  child.  The  rain  did  not  let  up  and  Mrs. 
Myers  was  convinced  that  it  would  be  a  shame  to  let  a  man 
go  out  so  late  at  night  in  such  a  rain,  especially  when  there 
was  a  spare  bedroom  in  the  house  which  he  could  have  just 
as  well  as  not.  .  .  . 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Mrs.  Myers'  fame  in  the  labor 
movement.  Her  circle  of  friends  grew  with  years,  but  it  grew 
discreetly.  Her  friends  were  as  cautious  about  her  reputation 
as  she  was  herself.  The  little  parties  which  were  held  at  her 
home  several  times  a  week  never  deviated  from  the  outward 
signs  of  respectability.  Mrs.  Myers  had  cultivated  a  number 
of  pleasant,  discreet  young  women  like  Mrs.  Stengel,  divorcees 
and  widows,  whom  she  invited  from  time  to  time  to  make  these 
parties  a  success. 

All  of  these  things  Fred  Conrad  might  have  known.  How- 
ever, once  the  curtain  of  respectability  was  drawn  aside,  the 
nature  of  the  place  had  become  clear  to  him,  and  his  immed- 
iate concern  was  how  to  get  away.  He  could  think  of  nothing 
else.  His  disgust,  shock  and  disappointment  were  quickly 
subordinated  to  the  thought  of  getting  away.  He  no  longer 
heard  what  they  were  saying.     He  was  alarmed  and  ashamed. 

They  had  moved  into  the  parlor.  Mrs.  Stengel,  embold- 
ened by  drink,  was  casting  challenging  glances  at  Conrad. 
She  could  not  quite  make  out  the  man.  She  had  been  far 
more  forward  with  him  than  she  had  ever  been  with  any  one 
else.  Yet  he  stood  there  and  seemingly  failed  to  understand 
her  suggestive  remarks  and  veiled  invitation.  She  gazed  at 
him  perplexed,  puzzled.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do,  how 
to  treat  him. 

Mrs.  Stengel's  boldness  revolted  Conrad.  He  was  furious. 
He  had  conjured  up  the  pure  and  lovely  image  of  his  teacher, 
only  to  compare  it  with  a  lewd,  wanton  woman.  He  choked 
with  rage.     He  would  have  liked  to  get  his  fingers  at  Bill 


214  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Triggs'  throat.  He  would  have  liked  to  tell  Triggs  what  he 
thought  of  him.  As  for  the  women  —  If  he  hadn't  been  a 
guest  at  their  house  and  eaten  and  drunk  at  their  table  he 
would  have  insulted  them.  He  did  not  feel  justified  in  doing 
so  now.  They  had  not  invited  him  and  they  had  been  nice  to 
him,  according  to  their  understanding,  to  their  ways.  .  .  . 
He  was  angry  clear  through.  Outwardly,  however,  his  sti- 
fling resentment  manifested  itself  merely  in  embarrassment. 
Mrs.  Stengel  interpreted  his  embarrassment  in  her  own  way 
and  whispered  a  suggestion  that  they  go  home. 

"  Yes,"  he  nodded.  He  meant  to  explain  to  her  that  he 
did  not  have  in  mind  the  things  she  had,  but  he  could  not 
speak.  Mrs.  Stengel  was  doing  the  talking  now.  She  was 
taking  leave  of  Mrs.  Myers  and  of  Triggs.  Mrs.  Myers 
shook  hands  warmly  with  Fred  and  Bill  Triggs  slapped  him 
on  the  back  confidentially.  Both  he  and  Mrs.  Myers  were 
too  drunk  to  read  aright  the  expression  on  Fred's  face. 

It  was  one  of  Mrs.  Myers'  unbreakable  rules  to  keep  regu- 
lar hours.  No  matter  how  little  she  slept  the  night  before, 
she  had  to  be  up  in  time  the  next  morning,  just  like  every 
other  woman  in  the  neighborhood.  It  was  this  fact  of  her 
keeping  strictly  to  the  standard  of  middle-class  conventions 
that  enhanced  her  value  with  her  admirers.  At  Mrs.  Myers' 
house  one  was  always  safe  from  scandal  and  from  any  un- 
pleasant occurrence.  It  was  strictly  a  "  home  "  and  she  was 
strictly  a  "  home  woman." 

Accordingly  at  eight  o'clock  the  following  morning,  only  a 
short  time  after  Bill  Triggs  had  left  the  house  to  take  a  car  to 
the  hotel,  Mrs.  Myers  was  busy  in  front  of  her  range  getting 
her  breakfast,  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door.  It  was 
"  Crazy  Emma,"  as  she  affectionately  called  Mrs.  Stengel. 
Mrs.  Myers  was  curious  and  a  bit  perturbed.    What  was 


THE  WIDOW  215 

Emma  doing  there  at  such  an  ungodly  hour !  As  usual,  how- 
ever, her  calm  exterior  did  not  betray  her  ruffled  mind. 

Mrs.  Stengel  raged  like  a  tornado.  It  was  not  the  first 
Jittle  party  she  had  attended  at  Mrs.  Myers'  home,  but  never, 
never  had  she  drawn  such  a  "  dead  one  "  as  she  had  in  that 
man  Conrad.  Why,  she  could  not  sleep  all  night.  He  had 
insulted  her,  frightfully.  Imagine,  he  had  been  sitting  there 
all  evening,  gaping  like  an  idiot,  until,  exasperated,  she  took 
the  initiative  and  suggested  that  they  go  home.  It  was  hard 
to  be  so  forward,  but  she  thanked  her  stars  when  it  was  over. 
They  had  started  for  home.  He  walked  with  her  to  the  end 
of  the  block,  bade  her  good-night  —  and  walked  away! 
The—! 

In  spite  of  all  caution  and  training  by  Mrs.  Myers,  Mrs. 
Stengel  gave  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  profanity.  Mrs.  Myers 
listened  to  it  at  first  smilingly;  she  relished  a  good  bit  of 
temper  now  and  then.  But  when  Mrs.  Stengel  threatened 
to  become  too  noisy  she  warned  her  to  calm  herself;  it 
wouldn't  do  to  lose  all  caution.  Mrs.  Myers  took  down  a 
fresh  jar  of  jam  from  a  shelf  in  the  pantry  and  Mrs.  Stengel 
at  once  became  interested.     Jam  was  her  weak  point.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Myers,  in  the  meantime,  called  the  hotel  and  got 
Triggs  on  the  wire.  She  gave  him  a  version  of  Mrs.  Stengel's 
story.  There  was  no  anger  in  her  voice  —  she  never  lost  her 
poise  over  the  telephone  or  elsewhere  —  but  it  was  serious,  so 
serious  in  fact  that  Bill  Triggs  cut  the  conversation  short  and 
started  back  to  her  house  in  hot  haste.  He  wanted  to  get 
every  detail  of  the  happenings  of  the  preceding  night  in  per- 
son. 

When  Fred  Conrad  came  down  to  the  hotel  lobby  in  the 
morning  he  failed  to  find  Triggs  and  waited  for  him.  His 
anger  had  subsided.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  treat  the 
whole  matter  lightly.    He  was  not  going  to  reproach  his  part- 


2i6  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

ner  for  the  unpleasant  situation  in  which  he  had  placed  him; 
he  would  treat  it  as  a  joke.  That  was  the  best  way  out  of  it. 
He  could  not  afford  to  quarrel  with  Triggs,  to  make  an  enemy 
of  him.  But  Triggs  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Fred  went  to 
breakfast  by  himself  and  lingered  at  the  table  longer  than 
usual,  thinking  that  perhaps  Triggs  would  come  in  any  mo- 
ment. He  returned  to  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  and  sat  around 
until  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  vice-president  of  the 
Transport  Workers  came  in. 

L  Triggs'  voice  was  dry  and  metallic.  He  made  not  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  night  before  and  plunged  right  into 
business.  There  was  nothing  more  for  them  to  do.  Their 
investigations  were  closed.  Triggs  communicated  some  of  the 
information  he  had  obtained  the  day  before  to  Conrad. 
There  was  an  object  in  this :  he  was  not  going  back  to  Wash- 
ington with  Fred.  He  had  a  little  matter  in  St.  Louis  to  at- 
tend to  and  would  take  a  night  train  for  that  city.  Fred  could 
make  the  report  to  the  Federation  by  himself. 

Conrad  was  a  bit  awed  by  the  turn  affairs  had  taken. 
There  was  blood  in  Triggs'  eyes  —  there  was  no  mistaking  it. 
By  noon  their  business  was  wound  up.  Triggs  went  out. 
Fred  went  to  his  room  and  packed  his  grip.  He  took  the  first 
train  out  of  the  city. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  HAND   OF   BILL   TRIGGS 

THREE  days  after  the  episode  at  the  widow's  house,  as 
Fred  Conrad  opened  his  morning  paper,  Triggs'  pic- 
ture was  staring  him  in  the  face.  It  was  on  the  front  page. 
The  accompanying  story  told  of  the  appointment  of  Wil- 
liam Hawley  Triggs,  the  noted  labor  leader,  to  a  high  post 
in  the  National  Citizens'  Alliance.  Triggs  was  to  head  the 
newly  founded  "  Division  of  Labor  and  Industry  "  of  that 
organization.  The  record  of  the  man  as  a  labor  leader  and 
a  citizen  followed  at  some  length  and  was  couched  in  glow- 
ing terms.  Triggs'  character  was  described  as  lofty  and 
high-minded,  his  reputation  unblemished. 

A  smile  which  played  about  Fred  Conrad's  mouth  as  he 
read  these  lines  vanished.  The  matter  was  not  to  be 
disposed  of  lightly.  It  was  of  great  consequence  to  him. 
The  National  Citizens'  Alliance  was  an  organization  that  was 
much  in  the  limelight  and  was  variously  viewed  in  the  labor 
movement.  The  Alliance  was  financed  by  the  leading  manu- 
facturers of  the  country,  and  had  the  word  "  reform  "  for  its 
slogan.  According  to  its  spokesmen,  the  mission  of  the  Citi- 
zens' Alliance  was  to  end  all  industrial  strife  and  abolish  class 
bitterness  in  America.  Leaders  of  labor  and  representatives 
of  capital  were  urged  to  "  get  together  "  at  conferences,  lunch- 
eons, dinners  which  the  Alliance  was  arranging.  They  were 
to  talk  over  at  these  "  get  together  "  dinners  their  common 
problems  and  differences  and  to  realize  that  there  was  a 

217 


2i8  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"  community  of  interest "  between  employers  and  employees. 
Such  a  realization,  the  Alliance  believed,  would  tend  to  abol- 
ish strikes  and  to  further  the  peaceful  settlement  of  all  diffi- 
culties between  labor  and  capital. 

The  radical  element  in  the  labor  movement  looked  upon 
the  Citizens'  Alliance  and  its  millionaire  backers  with  mis- 
trust. Its  confabs  between  labor  leaders  and  capitalists 
were  jeered  at  as  "  pink  tea "  affairs  intended  to  dazzle 
certain  trade  unionists.  The  motive  of  the  Alliance,  the  radi- 
cals declared,  was  to  gain  a  dominating  influence  in  the  Labor 
Federation  by  turning  the  heads  of  a  handful  of  its  leaders. 
The  socialists  especially  were  vehement  in  their  denuncia- 
tion of  the  Alliance.  They  called  upon  the  trade  unions  to 
be  wary  of  the  "  gift-bearing  Greeks."  Back  of  these  "  so- 
ciety "  dinners  and  entertainments,  they  warned,  was  the  sin- 
ister design  to  devitalize  the  class  solidarity  of  the  workers 
and  thereby  draw  the  fangs  from  the  trade  union  movement. 

Fred  Conrad  had  his  strong  misgivings  about  the  Citizens* 
Alliance,  but  would  not  accept  the  socialist  view  of  it  hastily. 
The  entry  of  Bill  Triggs  into  the  Alliance's  highest  councils, 
however,  removed  all  doubt.  The  fact  that  Triggs  was  for  the 
Alliance  automatically  put  Fred  Conrad  against  it.  He  and 
Triggs  were  at  the  opposite  ends  of  the  pole  in  their  attitude 
toward  the  labor  movement.  Triggs  looked  upon  the  move- 
ment as  a  vehicle  for  his  personal  ambitions.  It  was  some- 
thing that  was  to  serve  him  first  and  foremost.  Triggs' 
entry  into  the  councils  of  the  Citizens'  Alliance  meant  that 
in  a  short  time  he  would  dominate  the  labor  movement  of  the 
country.  Mark  Gelder  and  the  rest  would  be  pawns  in 
his  hands.  .  .  . 

Fred  recalled  the  evening  at  Mrs.  Myers'  home,  the  re- 
pellent appearance  of  Bill  Triggs  as  he  was  drunkenly  kiss- 
ing the  woman.     He  recalled  Triggs'  face  the  next  morning 


THE  HAND  OF  BILL  TRIGGS  219 

when  they  met  at  the  hotel.  Triggs'  eyes  had  blazed  with 
suppressed  anger.  There  was  murder  in  them.  As  an  enemy 
Bill  Triggs  was  known  to  be  relentless,  deadly.  .  .  .  Triggs 
was  his  enemy,  and  he  was  in  power  now.  There  was  trouble 
ahead  and  plenty  of  it.  .  .  .  Fred  had  a  feeling  of  a  storm 
slowly  gathering.  .  .  .  However,  he  would  preserve  his  calm. 
.  .  .  He  would  wait  and  see.  .  .  . 

Within  a  week  of  the  appointment  of  Bill  Triggs  to  the 
Citizens'  Alliance,  two  labor  leaders,  who  had  for  years  been 
prominent  in  the  Federation,  received  political  appointments. 
One  of  the  men  was  made  the  head  of  a  newly  created  bureau 
of  labor  for  the  State  of  New  York.  The  other  received  a 
similar  appointment  with  the  Federal  Government.  It  was 
common  talk  about  the  offices  of  the  Federation  that  both  men 
received  their  appointments  at  the  suggestion  of  the  Citizens' 
Alliance.     The  effect  of  this  was  electrifying. 

All  sorts  of  extravagant  rumors  with  regard  to  further 
appointments  of  labor  leaders  were  afloat.  With  the  same 
disgust  with  which  Conrad  in  the  past  had  often  seen  certain 
of  his  colleagues  groom  and  primp  for  "  dates  "  with  women, 
he  now  watched  them  groom  and  primp  for  possible  political 
jobs.  Just  as  in  the  past  these  men  had  cultivated  their  looks, 
so  now  they  were  attempting  to  cultivate  manners.  Their 
speech  frequently  was  affected.  A  grammar  made  its  ap- 
pearance on  the  desk  of  one  of  these  labor  men ;  another  spent 
days  and  days  trying  to  make  his  signature  look  more  busi- 
nesslike, the  letters  in  his  name  stubbornly  refusing  to  be 
joined  together.  On  another  occasion  Conrad  found  the 
vice-president  of  the  teamsters'  union,  Timothy  McGraw,  ab- 
sorbed in  a  little  book  entitled  "  Manners  of  Polite  Society." 
The  veneer  of  idealism  with  which  these  men  from  time  to 
time  shielded  themselves  was  discarded.  They  were  in  the 
labor  movement  for  selfish,  grasping  reasons.     And  now  they 


220  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

were  using  the  movement  to  climb  to  still  better  and  softer 
jobs.  They  were  more  and  more  guarded  in  their  speech 
about  employers  and  about  men  of  wealth  generally,  as  if 
fearing  that  an  occasion  might  arise  when  their  words  would 
be  taken  against  them.  Bill  Triggs  had  become  the  inspira- 
tion of  these  men.  They  swore  by  him,  and  shielded  the 
Citizens'  Alliance  from  all  attacks  and  criticism. 

The  attacks  on  the  Citizens'  Alliance  and  the  criticism  of 
the  labor  men  who  were  participating  in  its  councils  were 
gaining,  however,  in  frequency  and  in  vituperation.  The 
radical  element  in  the  labor  movement,  headed  by  tlie  socialis- 
tic Voice  of  Labor,  was  pouring  vitriolic  abuse  upon  "  Mark 
Gelder,  Bill  Triggs  and  Company  "  for  "  hobnobbing  with 
the  plutocratic  Citizens'  Alliance." 

"  The  Citizens'  Alliance  would  make  you  believe,"  the 
Voice  of  Labor  jeered  editorially,  "  that  it  is  trying  to  usher 
in  the  day  when  the  lion  and  the  lamb  will  lie  down  together. 
Blind  leaders  of  Labor,  beware  of  the  mockery  of  future 
generations!  The  Citizens'  Alliance  is  a  wolf  in  a  sheep's 
skin.  It  is  here  not  to  propagate  the  golden  rule  but  to  de- 
stroy the  labor  movement,  to  slay  it  from  within.  .  .  . 

"  They  fought  the  union  movement  when  they  thought  they 
could  crush  it  in  a  fight.  Now  that  organized  labor  is  too 
strong  to  be  crushed  in  open  battle,  they  have  changed  their 
tactics.  Instead  of  strangling  you  with  a  rope  they  are  trying 
to  smother  you  with  kisses.  Mark  Gelder,  Bill  Triggs  and 
Company,  before  you  sit  down  to  the  next  dinner  with  the  mil- 
lionaire members  of  the  Citizens'  Alliance  just  go  over  in  your 
minds  the  Alliance's  recent  activities  in  the  labor  movement. 
Take  stock  of  these  activities  and  see  what  they  amount  to. 
Has  not  the  Citizens'  Alliance  weakened  every  strike  it  has 
put  its  finger  in?  Has  it  not  emasculated  every  victory  of 
the  union?     Has  it  not  weakened  the  labor  movement  by 


THE  HAND  OF  BILL  TRIGGS  221 

diluting  the  class  consciousness  of  the  working  people  with 
such  phrases  as  *  the  community  of  interests  between  capital 
and  labor '  ? 

"Who  supports  the  National  Citizens'  Alliance?  No 
secret  is  made  of  it.  It  is  an  organization  financed  by  em- 
ployers—  the  very  employers  who  have  been  the  bitterest 
enemies  of  labor  in  the  past,  who  resort  to  spies  and  thugs 
and  are  introducing  the  dreaded  Pinkertons  into  our  ranks  to 
intimidate  and  imprison  labor  leaders,  and  to  break  the  labor 
movement.  When  these  men  come  and  tell  you  they  have 
experienced  a  change  of  heart  toward  the  trade  union  move- 
ment, why  don't  you  ask  them  whether  they  have  discharged 
their  detectives,  whether  they  have  fired  a  single  spy  ?  They 
have  not  —  and  you  know  it.  These  employers  are  as  brutal 
as  ever.  They  eat  with  you,  they  flatter  you  because  it  pays 
them. 

"  The  labor  leaders  who  feast  at  the  tables  of  the  Citizens' 
Alliance  are  either  fools  or  crooks.  Either  they  are  deliber- 
ately hoodwinked  or  else  they  crawl  to  the  Citizens'  Alliance 
because  they  see  the  prospect  of  a  fat  political  job  in  it.  The 
labor  movement  sooner  or  later  will  see  through  the  folly  or 
the  crookedness  of  these,  its  false  leaders,  and  then  will  come 
a  bitter  day  of  reckoning." 

Mark  Gelder,  as  President  of  the  General  Labor  Federa- 
tion, could  not  ignore  the  attack  of  the  socialists.  He  did 
not  defend  the  Citizens'  Alliance,  but  he  defended  his  position 
and  the  position  of  his  colleagues  toward  it.  He  never  at- 
tempted to  deny  that  the  Citizens'  Alliance  was  financed  by 
capitalists,  by  employers.  He  did  not  care  how  it  was 
financed,  by  whom.  He,  Mark  Gelder,  was  ready  at  any  time 
to  answer  questions  concerning  labor  to  all  comers.  If  the 
capitalists  of  the  country  wished  to  know  about  the  aims  of 
the  labor  movement  he  was  willing  to  enlighten  them.     Yes, 


222  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

he  was  willing  to  go  among  these  capitalists,  as  a  missionary 
goes  among  the  heathen,  to  bring  the  words  of  truth  and  jus- 
tice to  them ! 

The  Federation  was  now  definitely  divided  on  the  issue 
of  the  Citizens'  Alliance.  The  younger  radical  element  was 
arrayed  against  it.  The  older  and  conservative  unionists 
passively  followed  their  leaders.  Fred  Conrad  decided  to 
take  no  part  in  these  wranglings.  He  would  stand  aside.  He 
had  work  to  do.  It  was  a  relief  to  be  busy,  to  have  to  take 
orders  and  not  to  bother  with  the  raising  of  issues  and  the 
framing  of  policies. 

He  was  not  quite  sure  that  this  shrinking  attitude  of  his 
was  entirely  right.  It  certainly  was  not  heroic.  It  might 
even  be  construed  as  selfish.  He  was  becoming  critical  of 
himself.  Where  did  he  stand?  The  foreign  speech,  man- 
nerisms, of  the  socialists  he  had  known  in  his  father's  house, 
had  roused  in  him  an  antipathy  toward  the  advocates  and 
spokesmen  of  socialism.  But  in  this  case  he  shared  their 
viewpoint.  He  saw  through  the  Citizens'  Alliance;  he  de- 
tested it.  What  should  he  do?  He  knew  what  his  father 
would  have  done  in  his  place.  He  could  see  his  father  stand 
up  single-handed  and  carry  on  a  struggle  against  the  Citizens' 
Alliance,  against  Mark  Gelder  and  the  rest,  from  the  plat- 
form and  through  the  columns  of  the  Voice  of  Labor. 

Fred  could  not  picture  himself  doing  these  things.  He 
knew  it  would  be  futile.  Were  he  to  start  a  campaign  against 
the  Alliance,  against  Mark  Gelder  and  Bill  Triggs,  his  cam- 
paign would  come  to  nothing.  He  could  see  the  results  shape 
themselves  logically,  clearly.  Of  course,  his  father's  struggle, 
too,  would  have  been  futile.  But  while  his  father  could 
readily  and  ardently  undertake  a  futile  struggle  and  not  see 
its  hopelessness,  not  believe  in  defeat,  he  could  not.  It 
seemed  to  him,  at  times,  that  in  this  respect  he  was  older 


THE  HAND  OF  BILL  TRIGGS  223 

than  his  father.  His  blood  ran  cooler.  He  was  harder  to 
thrill.     His  mind  was  disenchanted. 

That  came  from  his  mother,  Fred  mused  —  the  fear  of 
being  unpractical,  the  fear  of  losing  out,  or  going  against 
the  stream.  From  Mother,  yes,  and  a  little  from  Uncle 
Gardner.  Old  Man  Gardner  was  so  cautious,  so  hard- 
headed.  He  always  took  a  tolerant  but  a  condescending 
view  of  his  father  and  Gottfried's  Don  Quixotic  dreams,  as 
Gardner  phrased  it.  Yes,  he  had  been  a  shrewd,  calculating 
Yankee  —  Uncle  Gardner. 

And  when  he  was  impotent  to  defend  himself  against  his 
self-criticism,  Fred  would  brood  over  his  fate  which  had  not 
brought  him  into  the  world  with  nerves  like  his  father's,  with 
blood  like  his  father's.  He  could  see  injustice  as  quickly  as 
his  father;  he  resented  it  as  sharply,  but  he  could  not  pounce 
upon  it  as  readily  and  recklessly  as  the  old  man  would.  He 
was  too  much  of  a  calculating  American.  That  and  his 
mother.  .  .  .  Blood  would  tell.  She  was  always  so  timid  — 
crushed  all  her  life  long. 

At  such  times  of  introspection  and  self-criticism,  he  felt 
painfully  the  want  of  friends,  men  friends.  It  was  hard  to 
be  alone  with  one's  thoughts  always.  He  had  kept  Elsie  in 
ignorance  of  many,  perhaps  too  many,  of  his  difficulties.  His 
sense  of  delicacy  and  refinement  prevented  him  from  telling 
her  about  the  coarser  side  of  some  of  his  colleagues.  It  was 
sufficient  that  he  had  to  know  it,  had  to  put  up  with  it. 
She  should  be  spared  even  the  suspicion  of  these  things.  .  .  . 

One  day  Conrad  made  a  discovery  that  at  first  he  tried  to 
make  light  of,  but  which  upon  closer  investigation  alarmed 
him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  certain  persons  about  the  offices 
of  the  Federation  were  shunning  him.  When  he  talked  to 
them  they  showed  impatience.  He  thought  perhaps  his  brood- 
ing had  put  him  in  a  disagreeable  mood  and  that  his  own 


224  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

harshness  reflected  itself  in  the  conduct  of  others  toward  him. 
He  assumed  a  friendlier  attitude  and  sought  to  mingle  more 
with  the  people  about  him.  The  shock  was  even  greater. 
His  attempt  to  be  pleasant  was  resented.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  every  one  was  eager  to  be  rid  of  him.  One  or  two  looked 
upon  him  as  if  he  were  an  intruder,  a  person  not  to  be  trusted. 
Some  passed  him  on  the  street  without  recognizing  him.  The 
whole  thing  had  the  earmarks  of  gossip.  Some  one  had  slan- 
dered, calumniated  him.  Who?  What  had  he  done?  What 
could  they  say  about  him  ? 

He  had  a  brief  furlough  and  went  to  New  York  to  spend 
it  with  his  family.  Home  and  family  always  set  him  right. 
After  a  few  days  he  felt  his  poise  returning.  The  happenings 
at  the  Federation  headquarters  did  not  seem  so  serious  at  a 
distance.  He  had  a  pretty  good  notion  whence  these  libels 
against  him  emanated.  The  invisible  hand  that  was  strik- 
ing at  him  was  curiously  like  the  hand  of  Bill  Triggs.  It  was 
Bill  Triggs'  policy  to  belie  and  libel  every  man  he  feared. 
He  did  it  in  a  roundabout  way  —  always  the  same  way.  Fred 
Conrad  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  it.  Bill  Triggs  had 
not  forgotten  the  incident  at  the  widow's;  that  was  plain. 
And  he  was  trying  to  disarm  him,  trying  to  make  him  harm- 
less, in  case  he  talked. 

This  tracing  of  the  gossip  about  him  to  its  lair  had  a 
quieting  effect  upon  Conrad.  After  all,  Mark  Gelder  was 
the  head  of  the  Federation,  not  Bill  Triggs.  He  would  go 
back  to  his  job  with  his  accustomed  energy  and  he  would  let 
the  results  of  his  work  speak  for  him.  As  far  as  he  was 
concerned,  the  incident  at  the  widow's  home  was  dead  and 
buried.  He  would  never  mention  it;  he  had  never  thought  of 
mentioning  it.  Triggs  might  even  get  to  see  this  and  cease 
campaigning  against  him. 

It  was  false  security  Fred  Conrad  had  lulled  himself  into. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

PRISON 

AT  the  outset  of  his  career  in  the  Citizens'  Alliance  it 
was  made  clear  to  Bill  Triggs  that  his  work  and  the 
aims  of  the  Alliance  could  be  furthered  most  effectively  if 
he  kept  alive  his  friendships  in  the  labor  movement.  Friend- 
ship was  the  keynote.  He  was  not  only  to  keep  his  old 
friends,  but  to  cultivate  new  ones.  That  way  lay  success  for 
him  and  for  the  Alliance's  plans  and  undertakings. 

The  doors  of  Bill  Triggs'  imposing  and  spacious  office,  in 
consequence,  stood  open  to  all  comers.  The  friends  who 
came  to  visit  him  were  impressed  by  the  office,  impressed  by 
the  importance  of  his  job,  and  impressed  still  more  by  his 
democracy.  Success  seemingly  made  no  change  in  him.  He 
was  the  same  old  Bill.  Every  such  visitor  sent  another. 
The  ex-vice-president  of  the  Transport  Workers  was  a  capi- 
tal fellow.  His  new  job  but  served  to  show  up  his  sterling 
qualities.  Triggs  was  a  stanch  friend  of  the  labor  movement 
generally  and  of  every  labor  man  individually.  He  was 
worth  calling  upon  —  and  he  could  do  a  man  a  favor.  He 
had  influence ;  he  walked  with  the  great.  .  .  . 

One  day  Al  Ryan  dropped  in  on  him.  Al  had  come  from 
Washington  on  a  little  confidential  mission  for  Mark  Gelder. 
Ryan's  stock  as  an  organizer  was  rapidly  going  up  and  Triggs 
was  glad  to  hear  that :  he  was  always  glad  to  see  a  "  friend  " 
rise.  He  closed  his  desk  and  they  went  out  to  have  a  drink 
and  to  lunch. 

They  talked  over  many  things  as  they  ate.     Al  Ryan  was 

225 


226  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

full  of  news  about  men  in  the  forefront  of  the  labor  world. 
Fred  Conrad's  name  came  up.  Ryan  had  not  changed  his 
opinion  about  the  man ;  he  had  no  use  for  Conrad. 

"  He  does  act  queer  at  times/'  Triggs  agreed.  "  I  have 
been  wondering  why  Mark  Gelder  does  not  drop  him.  He 
has  not  the  temperament  for  an  organizer.  Didn't  you  say 
that  his  father  was  an  eccentric  old  German?  '* 

What  Ryan  knew  about  Fred  Conrad's  father  was  mostly 
hearsay.  He  did  not  know  Gottfried  Conrad  personally,  but 
he  had  heard  that  he  was  one  of  the  pioneers  in  the  German 
colony. 

"  The  old  man  was  quite  a  celebrity  in  his  young  days,'^ 
Ryan  said.  V  He  was  one  of  those  German  exiles,  a  revolu- 
tionist or  something  on  that  order.  Now  he  keeps  a  little 
bookstore  on  — "  the  name  of  the  street  escaped  him,  but  the 
old  man  could  be  located  easily.  Any  one  of  the  old-timers 
in  the  German  colony  would  know  where  old  man  Conrad's 
little  store  was. 

Triggs,  though  he  was  eager  to  get  more  detailed  informa- 
tion about  Fred  Conrad's  father,  turned  the  conversation  to 
something  else.  He  meant  to  get  at  Conrad,  to  destroy  not 
only  any  influence  he  might  have,  but  his  very  usefulness,  if 
possible.  However,  it  was  just  as  well  to  use  caution  even 
among  friends. 

His  duties  as  the  head  of  the  Division  of  Labor  and  Indus- 
tries had  been  made  exceedingly  light  for  Bill  Triggs.  The 
plans  of  the  Department  were  laid  by  Walt  Kinsley,  the 
secretary-manager  of  the  Citizens'  Alliance.  Triggs'  func- 
tions were  largely  advisory.  The  secretary  consulted  with 
him  and  submitted  things  to  him  now  and  then  for  an  opin- 
ion, or  approval.  Triggs,  too,  was  to  spend  considerable  of 
his  time  outside  the  office.  He  was  to  accept  invitations  to 
all  sorts  of  luncheons  and  dinners  and  was  to  make  addresses. 


PRISON  227 

The  subject  of  these  addresses  was  to  be  the  growing  need  of 
harmony  between  capital  and  labor,  and  how  the  National 
Citizens'  Alliance  was  planning  and  promoting  this  harmony. 
These  speeches  were  written  out  for  him  by  Walt  Kinsley 
and  the  secretary-manager  of  the  Alliance  likewise  saw  to  it 
that  they  got  into  the  newspapers. 

One  day  when  his  duties  were  more  than  usually  light,  Bill 
Triggs  thought  of  Fred  Conrad's  father.  He  would  go  down 
into  the  German  colony  and  try  to  locate  him.  It  might  be 
worth  while  to  have  a  look  at  the  old  man.  He  stopped  on 
Third  Avenue  in  front  of  a  quaint  little  harness  shop.  The 
place  had  an  Old  World  atmosphere.  Triggs  imagined  that 
precisely  so  a  harness  shop  must  look  in  a  German  town.  In 
such  a  quaint  place,  too,  a  man  would  probably  be  found  to 
correspond.  He  was  not  mistaken.  A  white-haired  individ- 
ual who  walked  with  a  slight  limp  from  too  much  sitting 
came  out  from  the  rear  room,  which  was  the  workshop,  and 
greeted  him.  The  aged  German  mechanic  perceived  at  once 
that  his  visitor  was  not  a  customer.  Well,  of  what  service 
could  he  be  to  the  stranger? 

Triggs  explained  his  mission.  He  wished  to  know  the 
whereabouts  of  a  man  named  Gottfried  Conrad,  an  old-timer 
in  the  German  colony.  Could  the  harness-maker  perhaps 
help  him  out? 

Gottfried  Conrad?  The  old  German  beamed  with  pleas- 
ure. Who  would  not  know  Gottfried?  He  gave  Triggs 
specific  directions.  He  was  to  walk  straight  ahead  to  the 
third  corner,  turn  to  the  right  and  walk  on  the  left  side  of  the 
street.  About  two  thirds  down  the  block  Conrad's  little  book- 
store was  situated.     He  could  not  miss  it. 

The  harness-maker  did  not  look  as  if  he  would  be  averse 
to  a  brief  chat  about  old  times,  and  Bill  Triggs  seemed  to 
possess  a  fair  knowledge  of  the  leather  industry.     It  was  a 


228  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

nice  little  shop  the  old  German  had,  Triggs  suggested.  There 
were  not  many  small  harness  shops  left  these  days.  Yet  in 
former  years  harness-making  was  quite  a  trade.  Of  course, 
it  was  still  a  big  industry,  only  now  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
big  leather  companies  and  they  were  forcing  the  small  man  to 
the  wall. 

The  reference  to  the  injustices  of  the  big  leather  companies 
struck  a  sympathetic  chord  in  the  old  German.  Yes,  the  big 
factories  were  at  your  throat  all  the  time.  They  had  taken  an 
industry  and  killed  it.  The  harness  they  were  putting  out 
these  days  with  their  advanced  machinery  could  not  last  half 
as  long  as  a  handmade  set.  The  factories  had  played  havoc 
with  the  trade.  Of  course,  the  old  harness-maker  person- 
ally did  not  mind  their  competition  much.  He  had  his  cus- 
tomers who  would  not  look  at  a  factory-made  harness ;  he  had 
his  trade.  Besides,  he  did  not  need  much.  His  children 
were  all  grown,  married.  He  could  retire  any  time  he  wished 
to.  His  children  were  always  after  him  to  retire.  But  he 
declined.  It  was  not  easy  to  give  up  a  business  one  had  spent 
a  lifetime  to  build  up.  He  had  been  in  that  one  place  for 
thirty-five  years.  When  he  came  there  there  were  vacant  lots 
a-plenty  in  the  neighborhood.  His  oldest  son  used  to  play 
right  there  where  the  gray  tenement  stood  — 

Oh,  yes,  Gottfried  Conrad  was  the  same  age  as  he  was. 
They  came  over  about  the  same  time  from  the  old  country. 
Perhaps  Conrad  was  here  a  year  ahead  of  him;  not  much 
more  though.  Yes,  Conrad  had  been  a  very  important  figure 
in  the  colony  in  his  day,  mostly  among  the  socialists,  of  course. 
...  A  good-natured  smile  spread  over  the  old  German's 
face.  In  his  youth  he,  too,  had  been  a  socialist,  but  business 
success  had  forced  him  little  by  little  to  withdraw  from  the 
movement.  One  could  not  very  well  be  a  business  man,  deal 
with  business  people,  and  be  seen  at  socialist  meetings.     But 


PRISON  229 

he  was  not  at  all  averse  to  the  socialists  and  he  could  not 
understand  the  hostility  toward  socialism  on  the  part  of 
Americans.  He  was  wondering  what  his  visitor's  attitude  to- 
ward the  socialists  might  be.  Bill  Triggs  noticed  his  inquisi- 
tive smile  and  assumed  a  lofty,  benevolent  air.  If  he  did  not 
agree  with  the  socialists  he  was  tolerant  of  them.  Every  man 
was  entitled  to  his  opinions.  He  was  greatly  interested  in  the 
old  times  the  harness-maker  was  speaking  of,  in  the  social- 
ists of  those  times  and  in  what  Gottfried  Conrad  was  then 
doing. 

It  was  during  the  Haymarket  Riot  in  Chicago,  the  old  man 
narrated  warmly,  that  Gottfried  Conrad  was  at  the  height  of 
his  fame.  There  was  no  one  that  could  make  a  speech  like 
him.  He  would  pick  the  case  against  the  anarchists  to  pieces 
and  assail  the  police  and  authorities  until  he  had  his  hearers 
wild  with  indignation.  Whenever  Gottfried  spoke,  police 
were  massed  in  the  street;  the  reporters  from  the  big  English 
papers  always  were  present,  and  there  was  a  column  in  the 
paper  after  every  such  meeting. 

But  Gottfried  was  no  longer  what  he  used  to  be.  Since 
"his  wife's  death  he  had  been  keeping  to  himself  a  good  deal. 
His  little  store?  Well,  he  was  mostly  busy  evenings.  His 
customers  were  all  working  people.  They  were  the  freethink- 
ers, socialists,  anarchists,  among  the  old-timers,  and  they 
hung  out  at  Gottfried's  bookstore  nights,  talking  and  dis- 
cussing things.  Yes,  Gottfried  was  a  match  for  them,  all 
right.     He  was  mighty  well  educated  for  a  workingman. 

Triggs  found  Gottfried's  little  store,  observed  it  in  passing, 
came  back  some  minutes  later  and  entered  it.  He  bought  a 
cigar,  and  while  taking  the  first  few  puffs,  glanced  at  the 
walls  covered  with  shelves  of  old,  dusty  books.  He  hastily 
examined  the  newspapers  and  pamphlets  that  lay  spread  on 
a  table.     They  were  socialist  papers  and  pamphlets.     The 


230  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Voice  of  Labor  was  among  them.  On  its  front  page  was  an 
attack  on  the  Citizens'  Alliance  and  his  name  figured  in  the 
headline.  Alongside  of  it  lay  a  stack  of  anarchist  pamphlets. 
Triggs  started  for  the  door  without  speaking  to  the  old  man 
behind  the  counter,  though  he  had  observed  Gottfried  care- 
fully. He  thought  it  best  to  leave  no  recollection  of  himself 
with  Fred  Conrad's  father. 

He  had  plenty  of  time  and  went  over  to  the  library.  In 
the  newspaper  files  covering  the  period  of  the  anarchist  case 
in  Chicago  he  found  a  description  of  a  meeting  at  which  the 
German  workers  of  New  York  protested  against  the  trial 
and  execution  of  the  Haymarket  prisoners.  Gottfried  figured 
as  one  of  the  chief  speakers.  A  long  paragraph  was  devoted 
to  an  especially  vehement  denunciation  by  him  of  the  Chicago 
authorities  and  of  the  capitalist  class.  Triggs  copied  the 
paragraph.  He  found  a  few  more  quotations  from  Gottfried's 
speeches  in  subsequent  issues  and  copied  them,  too,  carefully, 
making  note  of  the  date  and  the  publication.  He  whistled 
to  himself  as  he  left  the  library.  Well,  well!  What  would 
Mark  Gelder  say  to  this?  With  the  socialists  attacking  him 
for  years  and  years,  attacking  him  even  more  fiercely  now  for 
his  connection  with  the  Citizens'  Alliance,  he  was  keeping  a 
socialist  —  he  had  no  doubt  that  Fred  Conrad  was  a  social- 
ist at  heart  —  in  the  councils  of  the  Federation.  No,  there 
would  be  no  trouble  in  getting  rid  of  Conrad  now.  But  he 
must  use  discretion;  he  must  not  rush.  He  would  bide  his 
time;  he  could  afford  to  wait. 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait. 

Triggs  had  barely  seated  himself  at  his  desk  when  Mr. 
Kinsley  entered.  The  secretary-manager  of  the  Citizens' 
Alliance  handed  him  a  morning  paper  and  pointed  to  a 
marked  item.     He  waited  while  Triggs  read  it.     The  item 


PRISON  231 

was  headed  "  New  York  Labor  Leader  Jailed  in  Indiana  " 
and  told  briefly  of  the  arrest  at  Red  Bank,  Indiana,  of  Fred 
Conrad,  a  labor  leader  of  New  York  and  Washington,  who 
came  to  take  charge  of  the  strike  at  the  plant  of  the  Durham 
Machinery  Company.  The  arrest  came  at  the  close  of  a 
turbulent  demonstration  which  followed  an  address  to  the 
strikers  by  the  eastern  labor  man. 

Did  Bill  Triggs  know  anything  about  the  situation  in  In- 
diana ?  It  was  rather  strange  that  this  should  happen  at  the 
Durham  Machinery  Works.  Cyrus  M.  Durham,  the  head  of 
the  company,  was  a  member  of  the  National  Citizens'  Alli- 
ance. He  was  a  generous  contributor  to  its  funds  and  an 
enthusiastic  supporter  of  the  harmony  idea  between  capital 
and  labor.  Mr.  Durham  was  a  broad-minded  man  and  a  fine 
citizen.  He  stood  for  law  and  order  at  all  times.  There 
must  have  been  a  strong  provocation  for  the  seeming  bitter- 
ness of  the  labor  struggle  in  his  plant.  Did  Mr.  Triggs 
know  this  man  Conrad  ?  Kinsley  had  no  recollection  of  the 
name,  had  never  run  across  it.  What  manner  of  man  was 
this  Conrad?  Was  he  a  bona  fide  labor  leader?  Was  he 
well  known  in  the  labor  movement? 

Kinsley  had  a  peculiar  way  of  speaking.  He  spoke  fast, 
as  if  he  were  always  in  a  hurry,  had  to  catch  a  train  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  His  speech,  too,  had  a  certain  intonation 
which  in  an  unaccountable  manner  conveyed  to  the  person 
addressed  a  very  decided  suggestion  as  to  the  sort  of  answer 
he  looked  for. 

Bill  Triggs  caught  this  intonation.  He  sensed  the  nature 
of  the  answer  Kinsley  expected  of  him.  It  was  a  pleasure 
for  him  to  give  the  desired  answer,  especially  since  it  con- 
cerned an  enemy  of  his,  a  man  he  hated  bitterly.  Yes,  that 
was  his  chance  to  "  get  "  Fred  Conrad,  to  clear  him  out  of  the 
way  once  for  all.     His  plans  were  growing,  maturing,  mo- 


232  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

mentarily.  They  were  becoming  clearer  and  more  positive 
as  he  spoke. 

Triggs  was  speaking  slowly  and  with  seeming  apology. 
One  might  easily  have  believed  that  he  was  greatly  grieved 
by  the  item  in  the  paper  —  grieved  for  Conrad,  grieved  even 
more  for  the  good  name  of  the  labor  movement  which  was 
being  dragged  into  the  mire.  .  .  . 

Did  he  know  Conrad  ?  Yes !  He  had  had  some  dealings 
with  him  at  one  time  and  upon  this  particular  occasion  had 
vainly  tried  to  steady  the  man's  violent  views.  But  after  he 
learned  of  Conrad's  antecedents,  he  gave  up  having  anything 
to  do  with  him.  Of  course,  he  saw  what  a  danger  the  man 
was  to  the  labor  movement.  However,  he  expected  that  Mark 
Gelder  and  Jim  Morgan  would  themselves  wake  up  to  it. 
They  would  no  doubt  wake  up  now  that  Fred  Conrad  had 
dragged  the  name  of  the  General  Labor  Federation  in  the 
mire. 

Still,  Triggs  did  not  wish  to  be  hard  on  either  Mark  Gelder 
or  Jim  Morgan  for  failing  to  see  through  Fred  Conrad  sooner. 
The  Federation  had  grown  to  immense  proportions  of  late. 
In  such  a  movement  it  was  inevitable  that  a  hair-brained, 
yes,  even  bad,  man  would  smuggle  his  way  up  to  the  top  now 
and  then.  .  .  . 

The  tone  of  seemingly  deep  sorrow  for  the  Federation,  for 
Mark  Gelder  and  even  for  Fred  Conrad,  with  which  Triggs 
spoke,  his  vague  allusion  to  Conrad's  antecedents,  set  Kins- 
ley on  edge.  What  were  Conrad's  antecedents?  He  was 
anxious  to  know  more  about  the  strike  leader,  the  type  of  man 
he  was. 

Bill  Triggs  obliged  him  with  a  description  of  the  book- 
store in  Little  Germany  which  was  kept  by  Fred  Conrad's 
father,  "  the  well-known  German  anarchist,  Gottfried  Con- 
rad."   The  little  store  was  really  not  a  store  at  all,  Triggs 


PRISON  233 

explained.  It  was  a  blind,  a  hang-out  for  anarchists.  Gott- 
fried Conrad  himself  was  an  old  man  now  and  no  longer 
active,  but  in  his  younger  days  he  was  a  notorious  character. 
During  the  Haymarket  riot,  especially,  this  old  man  drew  to 
himself  nation-wide  attention.  He  nightly  addressed  meet- 
ings in  defense  of  the  Chicago  anarchists,  his  comrades. 
These  speeches,  because  of  their  violence  against  the  rich  and 
vituperations  against  law  and  order,  against  all  government, 
frequently  led  to  riots.  ...  It  was  a  strange  coincidence, 
Triggs  said  smilingly,  but  only  recently  he  had  occasion  to 
look  over  some  newspaper  files  in  the  library  and  he  ran 
right  into  several  of  this  man  Conrad's  speeches.  They  were 
so  astounding  and  so  violent  that  he  was  moved  to  copy  a 
paragraph  here  and  there.  He  believed  that  he  had  one  or 
two  of  these  paragraphs  in  his  desk;  he  would  see.  ...  He 
fumbled  for  some  moments  and  produced  the  paper  which 
contained  the  excerpts  from  some  of  Gottfried  Conrad's 
garbled  speeches  of  long  ago. 

Kinsley  glanced  through  these  items  and  ordered  his  stenog- 
rapher to  run  them  off  on  the  typewriter.  .  .  .  Well,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  there  was  work  to  do  right  there  and  then  for  the 
Citizens'  Alliance  and  for  Bill  Triggs  too.  It  was  a  crime 
to  have  the  better,  law-abiding  element  of  the  labor  movement 
misrepresented  by  the  escapades  of  such  men  as  Fred  Con- 
rad. It  was  these  Conrads,  these  anarchists  that  constantly 
put  the  labor  movement  in  the  wrong  light  before  the  public 
and  fastened  upon  it  the  stigma  of  lawlessness.  .  .  . 

They  had  a  little  heart-to-heart  talk,  Walt  Kinsley  and 
Bill  Triggs.  Did  he  think  Mark  Gelder  and  Jim  Morgan 
would  look  upon  the  situation  in  Red  Bank,  upon  the  exploits 
of  Fred  Conrad,  as  they,  Triggs  and  Kinsley,  were  looking? 
Would  the  Federation  have  no  objection  if  Fred  Conrad  were 
brought  to  justice,  were  made  an  example  of?    Bill  Triggs 


234  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

thought  that  Mark  Gelder  and  Jim  Morgan  would  stand  on 
the  side  of  law  and  order.  Moreover,  he  would  apprise  Mark 
Gelder  about  Conrad's  antecedents,  distasteful  though  it  was 
for  him  to  carry  talk  about  any  man  in  the  movement. 

"  It  won't  be  necessary  to  do  that,"  Kinsley  assured  Bill 
Triggs.  "  The  newspapers  will  give  Mark  Gelder  all  this 
information  and  spare  you  the  trouble.  I  shall  give  the  facts 
you  told  me  and  the  excerpts  from  these  speeches  to  the  press 
as  soon  as  I  have  communicated  with  Mr.  Durham." 

Bill  Triggs  shrugged  his  shoulders,  still  sorrowfully. 

Kinsley  hastened  to  his  own  office.  He  at  once  dictated  a 
telegram  to  Cyrus  M.  Durham,  the  president  of  the  Durham 
Machinery  Company.  The  National  Citizens'  Alliance,  the 
burden  of  his  message  was,  had  come  into  possession  of  im- 
portant information  showing  that  Fred  Conrad  did  not  rep- 
resent the  best  element  in  the  labor  movement.  He,  Conrad, 
was  known  as  a  dangerous  visionary  and  anarchist  and  the 
law-abiding  element  of  the  labor  movement  had  for  some  time 
been  looking  askance  at  his  activities  and  recognized  that  he 
was  a  self-seeking,  dangerous  demagogue.  If  the  Durham 
Machinery  Company  cared  to  proceed  further  against  the 
labor  leader,  the  Alliance  would  cooperate  with  it  to  the  full- 
est extent.  It  would  not  be  an  unpopular  fight,  as  there  was 
no  doubt  that  the  law-abiding  element  of  the  trade  union 
movement  would  unhesitatingly  throw  the  anarchist  over- 
board.    Particulars  followed  by  mail. 

To  begin  with,  the  arrest  of  Fred  Conrad  was  of  no  signifi- 
cance. The  Durham  Machinery  Company  expected  nothing 
from  it;  it  was  purely  an  act  of  reprisal.  The  strike  was 
going  against  the  company,  and  Armour  Britten,  the  manager 
of  the  concern,  for  want  of  more  effective  weapons,  took  to 
harassing  the  strikers.     A  number  of  pickets  were  arrested. 


PRISON  235 

Fred  Conrad  made  capital  of  these  "  provocative  tactics  "  of 
the  company,  interpreting  them  as  signs  of  weakness.  If  the 
men  held  together  quietly  and  patiently  a  little  longer  they 
would  win,  he  exhorted  them.  Armour  Britten  saw  himself 
losing  out  and  pushed  these  raids  upon  the  strikers  with 
greater  vigor.  He  sent  a  number  of  his  hired  strikebreakers 
to  a  mass  meeting  which  Conrad  was  to  address.  They  could 
start  no  trouble  at  the  meeting,  but  their  opportunity  came  at 
the  demonstration  that  followed.  The  strikebreakers  started 
fights  in  several  places.  One  of  the  men  aimed  especially  at 
Conrad.  Though  he  could  not  get  into  a  fight  with  the  labor 
leader,  he  asserted  that  Conrad  struck  him,  and  the  latter  was 
arrested  along  with  a  number  of  strikers. 

Conrad  demanded  a  jury  trial  and  was  released  on  bail. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  his  career  as  a  labor  man  that  he  had 
been  arrested,  and  it  annoyed  him.  Nevertheless,  he  felt 
certain  of  the  outcome.  He  would  never  have  to  stand  trial. 
As  soon  as  the  strike  was  over  the  charges  against  him  would 
be  quashed.     That  was  the  way  such  matters  usually  ended. 

Nor  did  the  company  officials  think  differently.  Mr.  Dur- 
ham himself  looked  rather  askance  at  the  tactics  of  his  man- 
ager. Armour  Britten  was  a  new  man  with  the  company 
and  had  come  but  recently  from  Chicago.  It  was  quite  evi- 
dent that  he  was  trying  to  run  things  at  Red  Bank  as  they 
were  run  in  the  big  cities,  and  Mr.  Durham  was  rather  nerv- 
ous about  it. 

As  a  wide-awake  employer,  Cyrus  M.  Durham  knew,  of 
course,  that  manufacturers  were  resorting  to  just  such  tactics 
as  his  manager  was  employing  in  order  to  break  a  strike. 
He  knew  this  and  he  knew  more.  He  had  among  his  ac- 
quaintances and  friends  men  who  did  not  hesitate  to  attempt 
to  trump  up  charges  and  send  strikers  and  their  leaders  to 
jail  on  false  accusations  if  a  strike  could  thereby  be  broken. 


236  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

He  knew  these  things  and  he  knew  the  detective  and  strike- 
breaking agencies  which,  for  proper  remuneration,  were 
willing  to  assist  in  such  "  framing  up  "  of  strikers  and  labor 
leaders  by  supplying  false  witnesses  and  manufactured  evi- 
dence. He  had  always  hoped  that  he  would  be  spared  the 
necessity  of  having  anything  to  do  with  these  agencies  and 
their  breed.  But  now  Armour  Britten  had  made  his  plant  a 
headquarters  for  just  such  loathsome  individuals.  Really 
Armour  Britten  might  manage  things  a  little  more  quietly,  a 
little  more  diplomatically,  Mr.  Durham  kept  saying  to  him- 
self. It  was  different  in  large  cities.  There  a  man  did  not 
know  his  employees.  There  if  an  employee  went  to  jail  it 
meant  nothing  to  his  employer.  It  was  only  a  name.  But 
here  there  was  an  individual  behind  every  name.  Why,  he 
knew  nearly  every  one  of  his  employees  personally.  .  .  .  No, 
Red  Bank  was  no  place  for  such  high  and  mighty  tactics  as 
were  employed  in  Chicago.  .  .  .  Mr.  Durham  was  going  to 
speak  to  his  manager.  He  meant  to  tell  Britten  that  he  was 
laying  it  on  a  bit  too  thick,  with  his  hired  guards  and  de- 
tectives and  sluggers.  .  .  . 

The  telegram  from  Walt  Kinsley  changed  the  aspect  of  the 
situation  entirely.  Armour  Britten  was  on  top  once  more. 
He  was  the  sagacious,  brilliant  manager  again;  Durham  ad- 
mitted that.  Yes,  Britten  knew  more  of  the  lawlessness  of 
organized  labor  than  Cyrus  M.  Durham  ever  dreamed.  Brit- 
ten now  had  a  free  hand.  He  was  to  go  ahead  with  the 
strike  any  way  he  saw  fit. 

The  manager  at  once  sent  for  the  company's  attorney, 
Clifford  S.  Wellman.  Mr.  Wellman  read  and  re-read  the 
telegram  carefully. 

"  That  word  *  anarchist,'  "  he  announced  finally,  "  sounds 
good.  It  will  win  the  strike  for  us  before  the  week  is  over." 
He  dictated  a  reply  to  Walt  Kinsley.    The  Durham  Macliin- 


PRISON  237 

ery  Company,  the  telegram  stated,  had  proceedings  under 
way  against  Fred  Conrad.  The  charge  of  disturbing  the 
peace,  upon  which  the  labor  leader  was  arrested  in  tlie  first 
place,  was  only  a  preliminary.  The  case  was  going  to  the 
grand  jury  for  action.  While  the  company  had  all  the  evi- 
dence necessary  to  ask  for  an  indictment  of  the  labor  leader, 
it  would  none  the  less  welcome  whatever  aid  the  National 
Citizens*  Alliance  could  give  it  in  its  fight  on  lawlessness 
and  anarchy.  Would  Mr.  Kinsley  please  forward  all  infor- 
mation concerning  this  man  Conrad  by  wire  to  avoid  unneces- 
sary delay? 

Toward  evening  of  the  third  day  following  his  arrest,  Fred 
Conrad  was  approaching  his  hotel  when  a  friend,  a  union 
man,  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  The  man  held  out  a  copy 
of  the  Red  Bank  Evening  News.  Across  the  entire  page  ran 
an  announcement  that  the  grand  jury  had  indicted  Conrad  on 
charges  of  conspiracy  and  inciting  to  riot.  He  had  no  time  to 
assimilate  the  shock,  when  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  he  was 
approached  by  two  men  who  flashed  a  shield  and  a  warrant. 
He  was  under  arrest.  They  would  not  permit  him  to  write 
out  a  telegram  or  to  telephone  the  union's  lawyer.  They 
hustled  him  into  a  waiting  cab  and  made  a  dash  for  the  jail. 

Conrad  expected  the  union's  attorney  the  entire  evening, 
but  he  did  not  come.  It  was  a  long  night  and  the  morning 
was  even  longer.  It  was  past  nine  o'clock  when  the  union's 
lawyer,  Mr.  Seymour,  finally  put  in  an  appearance. 

The  lawyer  was  flushed  and  angry,  as  if  he  had  just 
emerged  from  a  scuffle.  The  officials  had  put  all  sorts  of 
obstacles  in  his  way,  he  explained.  He  was  there  last  eve- 
ning trying  to  see  Conrad,  but  they  gave  him  no  access. 

"  There  is  something  very  sinister  behind  this  thing,"  the 
attorney  said  with  uneasiness.  "  Somebody  has  cooked  it  all 
up  very  skilfully.     It  is  the  most  beastly  frame-up  I  ever 


238  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

heard  of.     This  town  is  on  the  map  all  right,  all  right.  ..." 

He  had  a  batch  of  newspapers  with  him,  the  Chicago  morn- 
ing papers,  and  he  handed  them  to  Conrad. 

"  The  story  is  the  same  in  all  of  them,  word  for  word,"  the 
lawyer  explained.  "  It  was  all  cooked  in  the  same  kettle 
apparently.  The  headlines  are  a  trifle  different  —  one  more 
lurid  than  the  other." 

Had  the  account  which  he  was  reading  been  a  chapter  in  a 
novel  it  would  have  held  Fred  Conrad  spellbound.  But  it 
was  not  a  novel  he  was  reading.  It  was  the  first  page  of  a 
big  metropolitan  daily.  It  was  supposed  to  be  the  truth,  the 
world  would  take  it  for  fact.  And  yet  it  was  a  devilishly 
concocted  mass  of  lies  about  him,  Fred  Conrad.  His  breath 
was  short,  his  throat  dry,  his  lips  parched.  The  lawyer  asked 
him  whether  he  wished  a  glass  of  water.  The  question  itself 
had  a  cooling,  sobering  effect.     Conrad  went  on  reading.  .  ,  . 

The  story  had  been  written  with  the  intention  to  thrill.  It 
seemed  from  the  account  in  the  Chicago  newspaper  that  the 
peaceful  little  community  of  Red  Bank,  Indiana,  was  experi- 
encing a  civil  war  on  a  small  scale.  The  forces  of  law  and 
order  there  were  fighting  against  the  forces  of  anarchy.  A 
trifling  disagreement  between  the  Durham  Machinery  Com- 
pany and  its  employees  had  been  seized  upon  by  these  forces 
of  lawlessness  which  were  personified  in  the  fiery  leader  of 
the  strikers,  Fred  Conrad,  and  the  little  local  grievance  had 
been  turned  into  a  war  on  all  law,  and  order,  and  govern- 
ment. .  .  . 

Then  came  the  story  of  "  this  man  Conrad."  Nobody  was 
exactly  able  to  account  for  the  man.  In  some  mysterious 
manner  this  anarchist  had  managed  to  smuggle  himself  into 
the  ranks  of  law-abiding  trade  unionists  and  was  using  his 
position  as  a  labor  leader  to  promote  his  erratic  ideas  and 
dangerous  anarchistic  aims.  .  .  .  The  supposed  biography  of 


PRISON  239 

Conrad  followed.  He  was  born  in  the  slums  of  New  York 
and  was  the  son  of  the  notorious  old  German  anarchist, 
Gottfried  Conrad,  the  bosom  friend  of  John  Most,  etc, 
etc.  .  .  . 

Intertwined  with  the  story  of  Conrad's  "  lurid  past "  were 
quotations  from  his  father's  speeches  in  defense  of  the  Hay- 
market  anarchists  —  the  excerpts  which  Bill  Triggs  had  dili- 
gently copied  from  the  files  of  the  New  York  newspapers. 
The  wedging  in  of  these  excerpts  had  been  so  manipulated  as 
to  convey  the  impression  that  it  was  a  quotation  from  a  speech 
of  "  this  man  Conrad  "  that  the  reader  was  perusing  and  not 
a  speech  by  his  father  a  score  of  years  back.  .  .  .  The  brazen 
falsification,  the  boldness  of  the  distortion,  were  stagger- 
ing. .  .  . 

The  story  left  Fred  Conrad  so  stunned  that  the  lawyer  had 
to  assist  him  in  composing  the  telegram  to  Mark  Gelder  stat- 
ing that  the  whole  thing  was  a  frame-up  and  asking  for 
prompt  assistance  by  the  Federation.  The  lawyer  took  the 
telegram  to  send  it  off  forthwith.  He  would  be  back  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

Mark  Gelder  needed  no  telegram  to  tell  him  that  the  thing 
was  a  frame-up.  He  saw  it  at  a  glance.  But  he  saw  some- 
thing else,  too.  Whoever  was  reaching  out  for  Fred  Conrad 
was  making  a  determined  job  of  it.  The  labor  leader  seem- 
ingly had  made  a  mighty  enemy;  he  had  antagonized  power- 
ful forces.    Prison  was  ahead  of  Fred  Conrad,  unless  .  .  . 

The  alternative  was  to  throw  the  weight  of  the  entire  Labor 
Federation  in  defense  of  Conrad.  It  meant  a  long  and  costly 
battle  to  assail  the  mighty  forces  that  were  arrayed  against 
him,  to  expose  the  frame-up.  Such  a  fight  would  draw  in- 
ternational attention.  Conrad  would  be  made  an  interna- 
tional figure,  a  marytyr.  .  .  . 

Was  the  General  Labor  Federation  ready  for  such  a  fight 


240  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

in  behalf  of  Conrad?  Could  it  afford  to  antagonize  forces 
that  could  so  array  the  press  and  the  country  against  the  man  ? 
Was  Fred  Conrad  worth  making  such  sacrifices  for  ?  Gelder 
scoffed  at  the  suggestion  that  Conrad  was  an  anarchist.  But 
the  president  of  the  General  Labor  Federation  had  noticed  that 
there  was  a  lack  of  what  he  termed  wholesomeness  in  Fred 
Conrad's  devotion  to  the  labor  movement.  Fred  was  well  in- 
tentioned,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  mix  well  with  the  labor 
element.  He  did  not  seem  one  of  the  men.  He  always 
stood  apart,  soared  a  trifle  above  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  .  .  . 

Mark  Gelder  was  pondering  over  these  things  when  the 
telephone  rang.  A  newspaper  was  asking  for  a  statement  on 
the  Conrad  case.  "  Not  in,"  he  murmured,  and  the  girl  at 
the  telephone  echoed  it  across  the  wire.  Jim  Morgan  and  Al 
Ryan  arrived,  each  with  a  stack  of  morning  papers  under  his 
arm.  They  had  been  reading  every  word  they  could  find 
about  Conrad. 

Gelder  called  them  into  his  private  office.  What  was  their 
view ?  What  stand  should  the  Federation  take  in  the  matter? 
The  papers  had  already  been  asking  for  a  statement  and  it 
would  have  to  be  forthcoming  soon. 

Al  Ryan  was  the  first  to  speak.  It  was  too  bad,  but  it  was 
the  sort  of  thing  to  expect  from  Fred.  Conrad  was  well 
meaning.  He  was  honest.  He,  Al  Ryan,  would  vouch  for 
his  honesty.  But  he  was  a  bear  —  a  German  bear.  He 
could  choke  you  with  his  honesty.  The  thing  was  a  frame- 
up,  no  doubt.  But  this  only  showed  that  Fred  Conrad  had 
been  rousing  animosity,  had  been  provoking  people.  Bill 
Triggs  had  often  remarked  that  he  was  surprised  that  the 
Federation  had  not  dropped  Conrad  long  ago.  Triggs  con- 
sidered the  labor  organizer  a  sort  of  iconoclast,  a  fanatic  in 
certain  ways.     Instead  of  making  friends,  Fred  Conrad  was 


PRISON  241 

antagonizing  people.  He  was  eccentric,  like  his  father,  an 
old  German  radical. 

Mark  Gelder  listened  thoughtfully.  What  Ryan  was  say- 
ing was  common  sense.  The  labor  movement  was  no  battle- 
ground for  gladiators  of  isms,  of  radical  theories  on  the  one 
hand,  or  for  eccentric,  impractical  people  on  the  other.  It 
had  no  use  for  iconoclasts.  It  needed  men  who  could  get 
along  with  people.  Yes,  Fred  Conrad  had  no  business  an- 
tagonizing such  forces  as  he  had.  Mark  Gelder  had  moie 
than  an  inkling  who  the  forces  fighting  Conrad  might  be. 
He  had  heard  from  several  sources  that  Fred  Conrad  was 
considered  out  of  place  in  the  councils  of  the  Federation.  He 
had  himself  more  than  half  suspected  that  all  these  sources 
went  back  to  Triggs.  Triggs  was  against  Conrad;  the  Na- 
tional Citizens'  Alliance  was  against  him  —  powerful  forces, 
bitter  enemies.  ...  In  this  world  every  man  was  paying  a 
price  for  the  place  he  was  holding.  Every  man  had  to  com- 
promise more  or  less  to  get  on.  He,  Gelder,  had  paid  a  price 
and  a  large  price,  too,  for  his  place.  He  had  gained  his  posi- 
tion as  a  leader  of  the  laboring  masses  by  permitting  himself 
to  be  led  in  turn  by  his  lieutenants.  He  could  defy  capital- 
ism, defy  the  newspapers,  now  and  then,  but  he  could  not  defy 
the  picked  men  of  the  labor  movement,  the  officers  of  the  vari- 
ous organizations,  who  were  making  him  what  he  was.  .  .  . 
He  had  to  give  in  to  their  desires  frequently,  to  suit  his  words 
and  deeds  to  their  convictions  —  or  lack  of  convictions.  Yes, 
if  a  man  wished  to  get  on  he  must  stick  to  the  crowd.  .  .  . 

What  did  Jim  Morgan  have  to  say. 

Morgan  agreed  with  Ryan.  Al  was  talking  sense.  There 
was  a  queer  streak  running  through  Fred.  He  was  not  popu- 
lar. In  certain  quarters  there  was  a  pronounced  dislike  for 
him.    Morgan  was  inclined  to  believe  that  the  choice  of  Con- 


242  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

rad  as  organizer  was  a  mistake  to  begin  with.  He  was  a  mis- 
fit in  the  labor  movement.  His  stand  against  the  Citizens' 
Alliance,  too,  left  much  to  be  desired.  Conrad  never  was  out- 
spokenly  against  it,  but  it  was  no  secret  where  his  sympathies 
lay.  He  was  not  a  socialist  in  his  politics,  but  he  was  one 
in  temper,  in  his  fanaticism  on  certain  things.  ...  It  was 
conceivable  that  the  Federation  might  be  called  to  defend 
labor  leaders  of  greater  value  than  Conrad  from  just  such  a 
situation  as  the  latter  was  in,  and  it  might  be  well  not  to  waste 
ammunition  now.  ... 

Mark  Gelder  listened  attentively.  It  was  evident,  con- 
vincingly evident,  that  Fred  Conrad  had  no  friends  among  his 
associates.  Were  he,  Mark  Gelder,  even  favorably  disposed 
to  the  organizer  he  would  have  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  his 
lieutenants,  to  Morgan,  Al  Ryan,  Bill  Triggs.  They  were 
against  Conrad.  They  all  refused  to  stand  by  him.  The 
Federation  therefore  could  not  stand  by  him.  It  was  not 
pleasant  to  reach  this  decision.  But  then  Conrad  should 
have  looked  out.  .  .  .  He  should  not  have  made  enemies. 
He  should  have  paid  the  price,  whatever  it  was.  .  .  . 

Twice  during  the  conference  Mark  Gelder  had  been  in- 
formed by  his  stenographer  that  the  reporters  were  outside, 
waiting.     "  Send  them  in,"  he  called  to  her. 

"  Gentlemen,"  Mark  Gelder  addressed  the  newspapermen, 
waving  aside  all  questions,  "I  presume  you  wish  to  know 
where  the  General  Labor  Federation  stands  with  regard  to  the 
Red  Bank  case.  I  can  say  to  you  what  I  have  said  on  numer- 
ous other  occasions.  The  labor  movement  has  always  stood 
for  law  and  order  and  opposed  violence  of  any  description. 
Its  attitude  is  unchanged  to-day.  Any  member  of  organized 
labor  who  violates  the  law  lays  himself  open  to  the  same 
consequences  as  any  other  citizen.  The  Federation  sees  no 
reason  for  any  action  on  its  part  in  the  case  of  Fred  Conrad. 


PRISON  243 

^ 

It  can  trust  the  courts  to  deal  with  him  as  fairly  as  they 
would  with  any  other  citizen  and  it  will  let  justice  take  its 
course." 

Jim  Morgan  and  Al  Ryan  exchanged  glances.  They  knew 
what  Mark  Gelder's  statement  meant.  Fred  Conrad  had  been 
thrown  overboard  by  the  Federation.  ...  He  would  have 
to  fight  his  battle  alone.  .  .  .They  were  glad  to  be  rid  of  Con- 
rad, but  the  thought  of  the  prison  sentence  that  awaited  him 
left  them  scared  and  uncomfortable. 

The  lawyer  was  an  hour  late.  As  he  came  in  he  handed 
Fred  a  telegram.  He  opened  it  nervously.  It  was  from 
Elsie.  His  father  had  locked  the  store  and  had  just  come 
over  to  elude  reporters  and  photographers.  The  New  York 
papers  were  filled  with  all  sorts  of  lies  about  him,  Fred.  She 
was  going  to  the  bank  to  draw  money.  She  would  leave  the 
children  in  care  of  his  father  and  start  for  Red  Bank  that 
night. 

"  Anything  from  Gelder?  "  Fred  asked. 

Without  a  word  the  lawyer  handed  him  an  afternoon  paper 
with  Mark  Gelder's  statement.  Fred  read  it  and  his  face 
was  ashen.    He  did  not  speak. 

"  They  have  put  your  bail  up  to  $20,000."  The  lawyer 
spoke  in  a  lifeless  manner.  *'  I  had  expected  that  the  Feder- 
ation would  come  to  our  assistance.  The  union  alone  can 
never  raise  such  a  sum." 

Fred  Conrad  failed  to  notice  when  the  lawyer  went  or  how 
he  got  back  to  his  cell.  He  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  in  water 
up  to  his  chin  and  that  the  ground  was  slipping  from  under 
the  tips  of  his  toes.    He  could  not  even  make  an  outcry.  .  .  . 

He  sat  motionless  for  a  long  time,  then  he  rose  and  walked 
up  to  the  window.  The  sun  had  already  set  and  a  gray 
autumn  mist  was  descending  upon  the  roofs  of  Red  Bank's 


244  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

middle-class  residences.  ...  He  had  always  dreamed  of 
such  a  middle-class  home  for  himself  and  Elsie.  .  .  .  One 
by  one  lights  appeared  in  the  windows.  .  .  .  Here  and  there 
a  family  was  sitting  down  at  the  table.  .  .  .  Evening  was 
coming,  evening  and  peace  —  to  fathers,  to  wives,  to  children. 
Children —  Elsie —  Somebody  was  moaning,  somebody 
inside  of  him  seemed  affrighted,  alarmed.  .  .  .  Now  that 
somebody  was  pulling  his  jaws  apart  —  was  trying  to  make 
him  laugh.  No,  never!  He  would  not  laugh  by  force.  No  I 
He  fell  face  to  the  pillow  and  bit  into  it  hard  —  harder.  .  .  . 
He  would  break  his  jaw  but  he  would  not  laugh  —  No,  sir! 
He  stamped  his  feet  —  he  raved.  .  .  . 

Somewhere  some  one  was  talking  in  a  loud  voice.  ...  It 
was  coming  nearer.  .  .  .  His  arm  felt  as  if  it  had  been 
clamped  by  a  vise.  ...  He  sat  up.  A  man  was  speaking  — 
shouting.  Was  he  addressing  him?  Oh,  he  understood  — 
he  remembered  now.  It  was  the  jail  attendant.  He  had 
brought  him  his  supper.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PEACE 

IT  was  the  second  letter  Elsie  was  writing  to  her  husband 
since  they  parted  in  the  Red  Bank  jail,  and  it  was  to 
reach  Fred  in  prison  a  day  or  two  before  Christmas.  She 
had  been  a  long  time  planning  it.  She  wanted  it  to  be  a 
cheerful  letter,  one  that  would  set  him  at  ease  —  hence  her 
extravagance  with  coal  that  evening.  As  soon  as  she  assured 
herself  that  the  children  were  asleep  she  put  an  extra  half- 
pail  full  of  fuel  into  the  stove  and  the  warmth  quickly  diffused 
itself  through  the  room  and  through  her  blood,  attuning  her 
sweetly,  tenderly.  .  .  . 

But  she  kept  her  tenderness  within  bounds.  It  was  not  as 
in  the  past  when  she  wrote  for  Fred  and  Fred  only.  Her 
letters  to  him  now  were  read  by  the  prison  authorities  first 
and  it  was  well  to  moderate  the  expression  of  one's  feelings. 
Besides,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  news  to  be  crowded  into 
the  letter.  In  her  first  writing  to  him  she  had  had  little 
to  tell;  she  was  still  unsettled,  dazed  by  the  trial.  Things, 
however,  had  turned  out  much  better  than  they  had  feared  in 
their  parting  hour.  They  had  feared  the  worst,  but,  thank 
God,  it  had  not  come  to  that.  She  was  spared  all  coarse  labor 
and  did  not  even  have  to  leave  the  house  all  day.  The  chil- 
dren were  looked  after  by  her  as  usual,  and  yet  she  was 
earning  a  livelihood  for  them.  Of  course  they  had  to  live 
very  close  for  the  time  being,  but  when  she  became  more 
proficient  in  her  work  she  would  earn  more  and  things  would 
ease  up  all  round  for  them. 

245 


246  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

As  for  her  work,  it  was  astounding  what  luck  she  had  had. 
Fred,  no  doubt,  remembered  how  fond  she  was  of  embroid- 
ering, especially  during  the  first  year  of  their  marriage,  just 
before  the  child  came.  Fancy  sewing  had  been  a  hobby  of 
hers  since  she  was  a  little  girl.  She  had  picked  it  up  from 
her  mother  in  the  long  winter  evenings  in  Belfair  and  on 
warm  summer  afternoons.  .  .  .  Well,  she  had  put  this  ability 
to  account.  She  went  up  to  a  factory  where  they  made  the 
finer  articles  of  women's  wear  and  applied  for  a  job.  She 
was  set  to  work  making  boudoir  caps.  After  two  days'  prac- 
tise in  the  shop  she  was  permitted  to  take  the  work  home. 
That  was  good  fortune.  At  home  she  was  her  own  boss;  she 
could  choose  her  hours.  In  fact,  she  never  sat  down  to  work 
before  Ruth  and  Robert  were  off  to  school.  She  was  there  to 
give  them  their  dinner  at  noon  and  supper  in  the  evening. 
After  supper,  she  went  back  to  her  task  and  Ruth  frequently 
sat  by  her  side  and  watched  her.  She  liked  to  handle  the 
satins,  ribbons  and  laces  that  go  into  the  making  of  these 
caps.     Before  long  Ruth  would  be  a  help  to  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  fortunate  move  she  made  in  leaving  the  Bronx  and 
taking  rooms  on  the  East  Side.  Of  course  they  had  no  con- 
veniences in  their  two  rooms.  They  were  cramped,  too. 
But  they  were  near  his  father,  and  that  was  worth  every- 
thing. Gottfried's  store  had  become  a  second  home  with 
Robert.  .  .  .  The  boy  spends  every  spare  moment  there,  talk- 
ing with  his  grandfather  or  browsing  among  the  books.  Most 
of  these  books  were  in  German,  and  Robert,  of  course,  could 
not  read  them.  But  for  that  very  reason  they  provoked  ques- 
tions and  Gottfried  was  always  telling  the  boy  something. 
The  child  comes  home  every  day  with  some  story  about  for- 
eign countries  and  peoples  which  Grandfather  had  put  into 
his  head.  In  the  house  Robert  had  become  so  much  easier 
to  manage,  docile.  ...  He  obeys  everything  she  tells  him 


PEACE  247 

without  question.  This  also  was  due  to  the  influence  of  the 
little  store,  to  the  talks  with  his  grandfather. 

"  Father,"  she  wrote,  "  never  tires  speaking  of  you.  He 
drops  in  daily,  even  if  only  for  a  moment,  and  it  is  so  good 
to  see  him.  One  does  not  feel  the  loneliness  so.  Saturday 
it  rained  and  Robert  spent  the  entire  day  with  Grandfather 
in  the  store.  For  the  first  time  he  talked  to  the  child  about 
your  plight  as  one  would  talk  to  a  grown-up,  explained  the 
reasons  for  your  absence.  ...  He  told  him  it  was  an  honor 
to  suffer  imprisonment  for  truth  and  right.  ...  He  spoke  of 
ancient  peoples,  and  how  from  the  beginning  of  time  such 
things  had  happened.  ...  In  Greece,  he  said,  a  philosopher 
was  made  to  drink  poison  because  he  would  not  desist  from 
teaching  the  truth.  .  .  .  And  it  was  not  at  all  new  for  honest 
men,  the  best,  to  be  sent  to  jail  along  with  thieves  and  cut- 
throats. ...  He  read  to  the  boy  from  the  New  Testament 
where  Jesus  was  crucified  between  two  thieves  because  He 
flayed  the  hypocrites  and  scourged  the  money  changers,  the 
capitalists  of  his  day.  .  .  . 

"  There  was  a  wistful  look  in  the  child's  eyes  when  he  came 
home.  He  talked  about  you  all  the  evening  and  he  has  been 
talking  about  you  every  evening  since,  so  that  I  sometimes 
have  difficulty  in  getting  him  to  sleep  until  late.  He  keeps 
telling  me  and  Ruth  how  nice  it  will  be  when  you  get  back 
home.  He  is  planning  what  he  is  going  to  say  to  you,  and 
what  we  are  all  going  to  do,  when  we  are  together  again.  .  .  . 
I  love  to  hear  him  talk  so  and  to  see  his  brow  wrinkle  in  seri- 
ous thought.  .  .  .  But  when  he  begins  to  ask  too  many  ques- 
tions Ruth  scolds  him  and  calls  him  a  chatterbox.  She  suf- 
fers keenly  for  want  of  you,  but  she  does  not  let  on  readily, 
she  does  not  speak.  She  keeps  her  troubles  to  herself  like  a 
grown  person.  She  is  already  becoming  a  regular  little 
woman.  .  .  ." 


248  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

The  closing  lines  of  her  letter  were  a  plea  for  peace.  She, 
his  father,  they  all  had  found  peace,  and  she  begged  him  to 
find  it  too.  Revenge  was  not  for  the  poor  man  —  he  must 
realize  it  by  now,  after  what  had  transpired  in  those  three 
days  they  had  sat  side  by  side  in  the  court  at  Red  Bank. 
She  realized  that  his  life  was  trying,  but  she  entreated  him  to 
be  patient,  to  offer  no  resistance,  to  make  no  protest.  He  was 
to  keep  in  mind  always  that  his  two-year  sentence  meant  only 
eighteen  months  if  they  could  find  nothing  against  his  con- 
duct. He  must  give  them  no  chance  to  detain  him  a  day 
longer.  They  were  waiting  for  him  —  waiting,  counting  the 
days.  .  .  . 

It  was  midnight  when  she  finished  the  letter  to  Fred.  In 
the  stove  the  fire  was  dying  and  the  house  air  was  becoming 
colder.  She  still  had  an  hour's  work  to  do  but  decided  to 
leave  it  for  the  next  day.  She  felt  as  if  it  were  a  holiday. 
.  .  .  The  room  seemed  permeated  with  her  husband's  pres- 
ence. She  read  her  letter  over  once  more  and  she  was  satis- 
fied. It  was  a  good  letter.  .  .  .  She  had  put  the  best  appear- 
ance on  everything.  She  went  over  to  the  cot  where  Robert 
was  sleeping  and  tucked  the  quilt  snugly  about  him  —  it 
was  going  to  be  a  cold  night.  Then  she  slipped  into  bed 
quietly  so  as  not  to  wake  Ruth,  pulled  the  quilt  over  her 
head  —  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  little  girl  —  and 
wept.  ... 

As  the  train  was  speeding  Fred  Conrad  to  the  state  peni- 
tentiary on  a  warm  afternoon  in  the  late  autumn,  the  smell  of 
the  freshly-plowed  soil  rose  to  his  nostrils.  Fred  had  fre- 
quently ridden  on  trains  through  beautiful  fields,  but  never 
before  had  the  odor  of  the  soil  seemed  so  sweet  and  balmy. 
He  drank  deep  of  the  breeze  and  it  felt  good.  It  soothed  him 
and  lifted  his  despair.  .  .  .  But  there  was  more  than  sweet- 


PEACE  249 

ness  and  balm  in  the  breeze  that  swept  across  the  open,  soft 
earth.  Language  seemed  to  emanate  from  it  and  speak  to 
Fred,  telling  him  of  great  wonders  that  hitherto  had  remained 
unknown  to  him.  It  told  of  vast  plains  and  of  a  wide  world 
where  he  had  never  set  foot.  He  listened  to  the  breeze  and 
his  heart  seemed  to  be  knitting  together  —  healing.  Yes, 
life  was  beautiful  —  and  he  would  not  surrender  the  smallest 
claim  to  life.  .  .  .  The  sentence  which  he  had  received  that 
morning  no  longer  seemed  so  formidable  —  he  would  over- 
come it.  .  .  .  And  at  home  things  would  order  themselves 
somehow  until  he  got  back.  .  .  .  And  then  —  when  he  got 
back  —  he  would  be  a  wiser  man.  .  .  .  The  freshly-plowed 
fields  were  shedding  a  new  light  upon  life  and  its  prob- 
lems. ... 

He  was  impregnable  to  prison  atmosphere,  indifferent  to 
prison  discipline.  Nothing  surprised  him,  nothing  shocked 
him.  .  .  .  Everything  was  as  it  should  be  —  as  he  had  ex- 
pected. He  did  as  he  was  told,  lived  as  he  was  ordered  — 
bodily.  But  his  mind  had  found  wings.  In  his  mind  he  was 
free,  free  as  he  had  never  been  before,  and  serene.  .  .  .  He 
dreamed  with  his  eyes  open  and  he  dreamed  in  his  sleep.  .  .  . 
He  dreamed  of  forests  and  streams  and  rivulets  which  he  and 
his  son  Robert  were  exploring.  ...  He  dreamed  of  a  little 
house,  a  log  cabin,  hidden  by  giant  pine  trees,  where  he  sat 
of  an  evening  smoking  his  pipe  before  retiring  for  the  night. 
.  .  .  The  noises  of  the  prison  just  before  waking  frequently 
translated  themselves  in  his  very  last  moment  of  slumber  into 
a  neighing  of  horses  and  a  tinkling  of  cowbells,  and  he  would 
wake  with  the  odor  of  pastures  in  his  nostrils.  .  .  . 

He  liked  best  to  think  of  a  farm  in  California.  It  was  at 
the  other  end  of  the  country,  California  —  away  from  New 
York;  far  removed  from  the  East,  from  the  scenes  of  his  many 
labors  and  final  disillusionment.     He  wished  to  be  as  far 


250  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

away  as  possible  from  these  places,  and  from  the  men  he  had 
known,  had  dealt  with  —  to  forget  them.  They  were  not 
worth  remembering,  not  worth  thinking  about.  ...  In  the 
prison  library  he  found  an  old  geography  and  he  read  all  it 
contained  about  California.  He  studied  the  illustrations,  the 
ox-teams  and  man-trails  of  the  distant  land,  and  was  trans- 
ported. There  was  a  map  of  the  United  States  in  the  book. 
Between  New  York  and  California  lay  many  states,  many 
hundreds,  thousands  of  miles.  .  .  .  His  heart  beat  wildly  at 
the  thought  of  the  distance  that  would  lie  between  himself  and 
the  scenes  and  places  of  his  past.  .  .  . 

Overnight,  Indian  summer  had  come  to  an  end.  The  sky 
overhead  was  leaden;  it  rained  and  drizzled.  In  the  prison 
corridors  it  was  always  twilight  now  —  in  the  cells,  always 
night.  Every  one  was  gloomy;  men  spoke  with  a  scowl. 
Two  or  three  prisoners  who  were  friendly  to  Fred  in  the  first 
few  days  now  ignored  him.  Every  one  seemed  more  than 
usually  preoccupied  and  did  not  wish  his  path  crossed  by  any 
one,  for  no  reason.  The  prison  authorities  redoubled  their 
watchfulness. 

There  were  extra  guards  in  the  shop  during  the  day.  .  .  . 
Several  prisoners  seemed  to  be  looking  for  trouble,  but  the 
guards  studiously  overlooked  them.  The  rains  which  pre- 
ceded the  first  snow  always  brought  depression  and  hysteria 
into  prison.  Men  were  ready  for  trouble  at  the  slightest  prov- 
ocation, or  no  provocation  at  all. 

Fred  Conrad  told  himself  of  the  necessity  for  keeping  his 
nerves  steady,  of  not  yielding  to  the  gloom  which  had  swooped 
down  upon  the  prison.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
successful  —  that  he  was  exercising  control  over  himself. 
But  the  prison  melancholy  had  taken  hold  of  him  none  the 
less.    He  became  aware  suddenly  that  he  had  been  acting 


PEACE  251 

like  a  thoughtless  youngster  and  not  at  all  like  a  man  who 
was  in  as  much  trouble  as  he  was.  He  was  dreaming,  he 
was  letting  his  imagination  run  riot.  He  was  lulling  himself 
into  a  false  security.  Take  the  thought  of  California,  of  a 
farm  there.  What  a  beautiful  dream!  Never  once  had  he 
taken  into  account  the  obstacles  that  were  in  the  way  of  his 
plans.  He  pondered  all  day  in  the  shop  over  these  obstacles 
and  did  not  sleep  half  the  night.  ...  It  was  his  first  sleep- 
less night  in  prison  and  the  reality  of  his  life  was  beginning 
to  weigh  him  down  with  its  ghastly  fingers.  The  air  in  the 
cell  was  choking.  ...  He  rose  and  stepped  up  to  the  door. 
There  was  no  use  trying  it  —  it  was  barred.  He  was  caged 
in  like  an  animal.  He  was  a  prisoner  just  like  the  rest  of 
them,  and  he  had  been  taking  things  calmly,  indifferently,  all 
this  time,  as  if  he  were  there  merely  as  an  observer  who 
could  come  and  go  as  he  pleased.  ...  He  had  been  dream- 
ing beautiful  dreams.  .  .  .  Bubbles.  .  .  .  Reality  was  hard, 
crass,  maddening.  .  .  . 

He  was  struck  by  a  peculiar  submissiveness  in  the  eyes  of 
most  prisoners.  They  moved  out  of  the  way  of  officials, 
guards,  keepers  in  much  the  same  manner  as  a  cat  or  a  dog 
gets  out  of  the  way  of  a  large  and  suspicious  looking  boot. 
He  recalled  the  first  time  he  had  disciplined  his  little  son 
Robert.  Robert  was  then  only  four  years  old  and  after  the 
pain  of  the  chastisement  had  subsided,  the  child  had  sidled 
up  to  him  hesitatingly,  submissively,  and  had  looked  at  him 
with  big,  scared  eyes.  Amid  uncontrolled  sobs  he  was  woo- 
ing his  father's  forgiveness,  suing  for  peace.  The  expression 
in  his  son's  face  had  cut  Fred  like  a  knife.  He  had  taken 
the  child  in  his  arms,  kissed  him,  fondled  him  until  they 
were  friends  once  more.  But  he  had  felt  guilty  toward  his 
son,  guilty  for  having  frightened  him  with  his  superior,  tow- 


252  THE  HOUSE  OF  COKRAD 

ering  force.  The  dog-like  expression  in  his  child's  face  was 
stamped  indelibly  on  his  memory.  Time  could  not  efface  it. 
The  recollection  of  it  pained. 

The  prisoners  looked  to  him  just  like  such  chastised  chil- 
dren who  were  suing  for  peace.  There  was  the  look  of  the 
beaten  dog  in  their  faces.  They  realized  that  they  were  hope- 
lessly defeated  by  the  superior,  invincible  forces  that  were 
arrayed  against  them.  Their  eyes  curried  favor  and  forgive- 
ness of  every  one  who  had  the  power  to  make  their  lot  easier. 

A  new  prisoner  was  brought  in.  He  was  a  lad  of  nine- 
teen and  was  to  serve  a  ten-year  sentence  for  burglary.  He 
was  pale  and  thin  and  looked  as  if  he  had  gone  hungry  for 
a  long  time.  His  features  were  frail,  almost  feminine,  and 
he  gazed  about  him  hopelessly.  The  details  of  the  charge 
against  the  boy  soon  filtered  through  the  prison.  There  was 
nothing  heroic,  nothing  exciting,  about  the  case.  It  was  the 
old  story,  too  common  to  arouse  interest.  He  was  out  of  a 
job,  his  room  rent  had  not  been  paid  and  he  had  not  had  a 
full  meal  in  days.  ...  He  stole  some  silver  and  the  police 
got  him.  .  .  . 

Fred  was  now  studying  the  faces  of  the  men  about  him. 
There  were  many  young  men  among  the  prisoners.  He 
learned  the  story  of  several.  Their  crimes  were  connected 
with  money,  the  illegal  procuring  of  money.  Want  had 
landed  most  of  them  behind  prison  bars.  Some  of  these 
boys  were  sadly  deficient  in  education.  They  were  in  need 
of  training,  the  kind  of  training  that  would  enable  them  to 
hold  their  ground  in  the  crush  and  struggle  for  bread.  In- 
stead they  were  kept  rotting  in  jail.  The  injustice  of  the 
world  and  the  stupidity  of  men  were  indeed  appalling.  The 
more  he  observed  and  thought  the  more  the  prison  appeared 
to  him  as  evidence,  not  so  much  of  man's  depravity,  as  of 
society's  incompetence. 


PEACE  253 

One  afternoon  his  brooding  took  an  unexpected  turn.  The 
new  boy  prisoner  had  been  put  to  work  beside  him,  and  Con- 
rad needed  but  to  take  his  eyes  off  the  boy  for  a  moment  and 
at  once  he  would  begin  to  see,  feel,  at  the  bench  next  to  him, 
not  the  boy  prisoner,  who  was  a  stranger  to  him,  but  his  own 
child,  his  son  Robert.  ...  He  tried  to  engross  himself  in 
his  work  and  knock  the  foolish  thought  out  of  his  brain,  but 
it  would  not  be  knocked  out.  It  stuck  fast.  .  .  .  Yes,  his 
son  Robert  was  standing  at  the  bench.  .  .  .  Robert,  in  prison 
stripes,  serving  a  ten-year  sentence  for  burglary.  ...  He  had 
been  hungry  and  his  room  rent  was  not  paid  and  there  was 
a  chance  to  take  some  silver,  so  he  took  it  —  and  they  caught 
him,  and  jailed  him,  caged  him  for  ten  years  —  ten  years! 

A  terrible  thought  seized  Conrad.  He  could  not  bring  his 
mind  under  control.  .  .  .  He  looked  about.  There  was  no 
one  he  could  ask  assistance  of,  talk  to.  .  .  .  He  was  afraid 
—  he  feared  he  was  losing  his  mind.  Was  that  the  way  peo- 
ple went  insane?  No,  really  he  must  compose  himself.  It 
was  nothing,  just  weakness.  Of  course  Robert  was  not  there, 
could  not  be.  He  was  a  child  and  was  with  his  mother  now, 
with  Elsie.  He  must  think  of  Elsie.  .  .  .  Elsie  would  not 
fail  him  now.  .  .  .  She  never  failed  him.  .  .  .  She  seemed 
to  hover  about  him  until  it  was  five  o'clock  and  then  the  day 
was  over. 

He  welcomed  the  cell.  He  threw  himself  on  his  bed,  buried 
his  face  in  the  filthy  sack  of  straw  and  kissed  Robert's  feet 
and  begged  forgiveness  of  his  son,  forgiveness  for  the  crime 
he  had  committed  against  him.  He  had  no  business  bring- 
ing the  child  into  the  world.  ...  It  was  a  crime  to  bring 
human  life  into  a  world  that  cared  so  little  for  human  life. 
It  was  a  crime  to  have  children  in  a  society  that  crushed  and 
ground  and  devoured  its  own  offspring.  ...  He  cried  and 
moaned  and  tossed  on  the  narrow  cot,  vainly  imploring  sleep 


254  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

to  come  to  his  relief.  .  .  .  And  then  he  was  making  a  speech. 
.  .  .  He  was  pleading  for  the  boy  prisoner,  for  Robert,  for 
all  children.  .  .  .  The  world  must  not  trifle  with  childhood, 
he  warned  threateningly.  .  .  . 

When  he  awoke  he  at  once  felt  the  change  in  the  at- 
mosphere. It  was  frosty  and  bracing.  The  maddening  pat- 
ter of  the  rain  had  ceased  through  the  night.  .  .  .  His  health 
and  poise  were  coming  back  to  him.  It  was  a  narrow  escape 
from  madness  he  had  had.  Late  that  day  they  handed  him 
a  letter,  Elsie's  letter.  And  his  mind  recovered  its  wings. 
,  .  .  He  could  dream  once  more.  ... 

The  week  between  Christmas  and  New  Year  he  was  a 
very  normal  and  a  very  sympathetic  prisoner.  He  had  a 
benign  look  as  if  he  were  on  the  verge  of  giving  a  present  to 
every  one  who  crossed  his  path.  The  peace  and  patience 
Elsie  urged  in  her  letter  had  descended  upon  him.  And  it 
was  well  that  it  had.  For  he  had  been  under  observation 
all  week,  though  he  was  not  in  the  least  conscious  of  it. 
The  prison  officials,  from  the  warden  down,  had  found  an 
excuse  for  taking  a  good  look  at  him.  And  on  the  afternoon 
of  New  Year's  Day  the  good  news  was  brought  to  him.  He 
was  to  report  to  the  bakeshop  the  next  morning.  One  of  the 
men  who  worked  there  was  to  be  discharged  in  a  few  days 
and  Fred  was  to  take  his  place.  They  were  in  need  of  a  real 
baker;  they  had  not  had  a  professional  for  years.  And  if 
Fred  was  such  a  professional  baker,  then  he  was  the  man 
the  prison  authorities  were  looking  for;  things  would  go  well 
with  him.  There  was  no  doubt  about  Conrad  being  a  pro- 
fessional baker.  The  entire  prison  knew  it  when  they  tasted 
the  bread  of  the  next  baking.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he  was 
in  complete  charge  of  the  bakeshop.  It  felt  good  to  give  or- 
ders and  to  be  consulted,  to  be  a  leader  once  more.  The 
prison  did  not  weigh  so  heavily.  .  .  . 


PEACE  255 

Whatever  it  might  be  in  the  summer,  in  the  winter  months 
the  bakeshop  was  the  pleasantest  room  in  prison  and  Fred 
would  occasionally  hum  to  himself  mentally,  if  not  vocally, 
as  he  worked.  With  the  mental  humming  went  the  thought 
of  freedom  and  the  dream  of  the  future  —  of  California,  of 
a  farm.  .  .  .  One  night,  when  his  heart  was  overflowing  with 
longing,  he  made  these  visionings  a  part  of  his  monthly  letter 
to  Elsie.  He  wrote  about  the  house  he  was  dreaming  of,  a  log 
cabin  hidden  by  giant  pine-trees,  and  of  the  excursions  into 
the  woods  he  and  Robert  would  make  to  kill  their  meat,  as 
most  pioneers  in  California  had  done.  But  when  he  read  the 
letter  over  he  was  ashamed  and  was  in  doubt  about  mailing  it. 
It  was  a  foolish  letter,  more  fit  for  a  boy  than  a  man,  a  father 
of  children.  .  .  .  However,  he  mailed  it.  Elsie  would  un- 
derstand. ...  In  her  presence  he  always  was  a  boy.  And 
she  had  been  in  his  thoughts  so  much  lately,  so  much.  .  .  . 

Of  course  Elsie  understood.  The  letter  brought  a  cheer- 
fulness into  her  face  that  had  not  been  there  for  many  months. 
She  was  thankful  that  Fred  was  able  to  maintain  his  boy 
spirit  in  prison,  that  he  was  able  to  shed  the  radiance  of 
dreams  over  sordid  reality.  .  .  . 

As  for  Robert,  he  laid  special  claim  to  and  appropriated 
the  letter.  He  straightened  out  its  folds  and  meant  to  keep 
it  forever.  .  .  .  His  father  was  nearer  to  him  now  than  he 
had  ever  been  —  the  boy  spirit  of  the  missive  brought  him 
nearer.  The  log  cabin  in  California  was  an  accomplished 
fact  with  the  child.  ...  He  slept  in  it  nights.  ...  In  a 
store  window  on  the  Bowery  he  had  seen  a  rifle  and  he  set 
his  mind  on  it.  .  .  .  That  was  the  rifle  he  was  going  to  go 
hunting  with,  for  he  and  his  father  would  go  hunting.  They 
would  have  to,  for  they  meant  "  to  kill  their  meat "  as  all 
the  pioneers  had  done.  ...  He  and  his  father  —  ah,  what 
a  life  they  were  leading  in  Robert's  dreams! 


256  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Robert  used  his  father's  letter  to  gain  a  point.  Elsie,  too, 
had  been  thinking  of  the  future.  Nightly,  after  she  had 
completed  her  day's  work,  which  was  seldom  before  ten 
o'clock,  she  would  go  to  the  sink,  wash  her  hands,  face,  and 
neck  in  cold  water  to  banish  sleep,  and  would  sit  down  to 
work  again  for  an  hour,  and  work  fast,  as  if  she  were  just 
starting  on  a  new  day's  work.  It  was  this  hour's  work  she 
was  giving  to  the  future.  .  .  .  Ruth,  too,  was  beginning  to 
contribute  toward  this  family  future.  She  had  learned  to 
make  the  artificial  roses  out  of  ribbon  and  the  little  knots 
and  bows  with  which  some  of  the  more  expensive  boudoir 
caps  were  trimmed.  And  Elsie  now  ordered  more  of  these 
caps  —  they  paid  better  —  and  let  Ruth  relieve  her  of  the 
delicate  finger  work  which  went  into  the  making  of  these 
roses  and  bows.  Ruth's  labor,  Elsie  figured,  was  adding  a 
dollar  and  a  half  a  week  to  the  family  income.  Robert, 
alone,  was  not  contributing  anything.  His  mother  would  not 
permit  him  to  sell  newispapers.  She  did  not  want  him  to 
roam  about  the  streets  at  all  times  of  day  or  night,  she  said. 
And  now  she  also  thwarted  his  plan  to  go  along  with  the 
other  boys  of  the  district  in  search  of  wood,  stray  boxes  and 
boards  which  could  be  picked  up  about  the  warehouses  in  the 
wholesale  districts,  and  in  this  way  cut  the  family  coal  bill. 
Fred's  letter,  however,  had  the  effect  of  strengthening  Rob- 
ert's plea.  His  father  was  already  considering  him  a  sort 
of  an  equal.  He  talked  of  going  out  to  kill  game  with  his 
young  son.  Elsie  relented.  Henceforth  Robert  could  go 
after  wood  —  if  he  were  careful. 

These  expeditions  to  the  wholesale  district  set  Robert  aglow 
with  happiness.  They  seemed  to  him  like  a  foretaste  of  the 
hunting  expeditions  he  and  his  father  would  make  together 
"  out  there,"  as  he  was  now  speaking  of  California  and  the 
West. 


PEACE  257 

Robert  made  these  expeditions  after  school.  One  warm 
afternoon  in  March  he  returned  from  such  a  trip  in  half  an 
hour.  He  had  happened  upon  huge  piles  of  boxes.  He 
brought  one  load  upon  the  little  cart  he  had  improvised  for 
himself  and  was  going  again  to  clear  up  the  rest.  Elsie 
urged  him  to  content  himself  with  that  one  load,  but  Robert 
would  not  hear  of  it.  He  would  be  back  in  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  with  another  load.  She  watched  the  face  and 
features  of  her  son  with  a  flood  of  happiness.  Excitement 
was  making  him  handsome;  he  seemed  so  brave.  She  gave 
in  and  let  him  go.  Only  he  must  keep  his  coat  well  but- 
toned. .  .  .  But  the  day  was  altogether  too  summery  for 
Robert  to  heed  the  warning.  He  returned  with  a  second  load 
of  boxes  and  boards  at  six  o'clock,  tired.  In  spite  of  his 
exercise  he  did  not  have  much  of  an  appetite  for  supper  and 
went  to  bed  without  her  urging.  During  the  night  he  awoke 
and  asked  for  water.  He  was  ill  in  the  morning  and  at  ten 
o'clock  she  called  a  doctor.  He  prescribed  medicine,  gave 
instructions,  and  said  he  would  come  again  in  the  evening. 
He  came.     The  child  had  pneumonia. 

Elsie  ran  a  race  with  death.  For  two  weeks  she  did  not 
undress,  and  took  her  sleep  in  snatches  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed.  Robert  now  lay  in  bed,  while  Ruth  occupied  the  cot. 
The  first  week  in  April  he  was  out  of  danger.  Warm 
weather,  the  doctor  said,  would  soon  remove  all  fear  of  after- 
effects. She  was  afraid  of  after-effects.  Nothing  of  the 
disease  must  remain  lurking  in  her  son.  She  was  tireless 
in  her  attentions  to  the  child.  Just  as  the  boy  was  becom- 
ing normal,  she  contracted  a  cold.  It  proved  to  be  influenza. 
She  did  not  call  the  doctor.  She  expected  it  would  pass  in 
a  few  days,  and  it  did.  Only  her  chest  and  bronchial  tubes 
remained  a  trifle  sensitive.  She  had  not  had  enough  cover- 
ing.    She  was  still  giving  all  her  best  blankets  to  Robert, 


258  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

leaving  but  a  single  cotton  one  for  herself.  She  thought  of 
buying  an  extra  blanket,  but  April  was  three  weeks  gone. 
The  warm  weather  ought  to  set  in  any  day,  she  figured,  and 
she  did  not  feel  like  spending  another  three  or  four  dollars 
on  a  quilt.  She  would  not  buy  a  cheap  one;  they  were  a 
waste  of  money.  .  .  .  But  the  warm  weather  lagged.  May 
was  cold,  unusually  so.  It  was  not  until  the  first  week  in 
June  that  summer  weather  set  in  in  earnest. 

Elsie  was  thankful.  The  cool  weather  had  exasperated 
her.  The  sensitiveness  in  her  bronchial  tubes  and  chest 
persisted.  She  coughed  and  now  and  then  was  a  little 
hoarse.  The  warm  weather,  she  hoped,  would  knock  it  all 
out.  And  it  did  seem  to  be  doing  her  good.  But  she  was 
not  getting  rid  of  her  pain  entirely.  In  August  she  got  an- 
other cold.  It  was  more  severe  than  the  first,  harder  to  get 
rid  of.  It  dragged  into  September  and  then  there  was  a 
spell  of  fall  weather  to  aggravate  it. 

Gottfried  noticed  her  cough  one  afternoon  and  looked  Elsie 
over  uneasily.  He  spoke  reproachfully  to  her  for  not  having 
seen  a  physician.  It  was  not  wise  to  let  a  cold  persist  so 
long.  She  promised  him  that  she  would  see  a  doctor  the 
next  morning. 

The  physician  listened  to  her  chest  for  some  moments, 
stopped  and  looked  at  her  hard,  glaringly.  He  listened 
again.  Then  he  asked  questions.  Why  had  she  not  come 
sooner  —  sooner?  For  a  moment  the  physician  looked  as 
if  he  were  going  to  strike  her.  Elsie  was  alarmed.  Was  it 
anything  bad? 

Bad?  Of  course  it  was  bad.  There  was  no  time  to  lose 
in  mincing  words.  The  doctor  spoke  bluntly  —  she  had  to 
know  the  truth  if  she  were  to  save  herself.  Her  lungs  were 
affected,  seriously  affected.  A  sanitarium  at  once  would  be 
the  very  best  thing.  .  .  . 


PEACE  259 

The  blood  left  her  cheeks  and  her  hands  were  trembling. 
She  stammered  out  her  circumstances  to  the  physician.  She 
was  the  sole  support  of  her  children.  Her  husband  would 
not  be  back  before  spring.  A  sanitarium  was  out  of  the 
question.  She  would  have  to  be  treated  at  home.  .  .  .  The 
doctor  outlined  a  course  of  treatment  for  her  and  the  care 
she  was  to  take  with  the  children.  She  must  keep  her  dis- 
tance from  them  if  they  were  to  be  spared. 

Gottfried  ran  in  earlier  than  was  his  wont.  He  was  anx- 
ious to  hear  what  the  physician  had  to  say.  What  the  doctor 
had  said  was  written  all  over  Elsie.  Since  the  night  before 
she  seemed  older  by  ten  years.  The  doctor's  words  had 
stamped  the  consumptive  look  on  her. 

Gottfried  was  deep  in  thought  for  some  moments  and  then 
—  then  he  took  charge  of  the  house,  of  Elsie  and  the  chil- 
dren. He,  too,  had  been  saving  for  Fred's  future,  their  fu- 
ture, he  informed  his  daughter-in-law.  He  had  several  hun- 
dred dollars  in  the  bank  with  which  he  had  meant  to  put 
Fred  in  business  when  he  came  out.  Well,  the  future  would 
have  to  take  care  of  itself  now.  Henceforth  she  was  not  to 
work.  She  was  to  live  on  that  money.  She  was  not  to 
worry.  He  would  look  after  everything.  His  store  was 
giving  him  far  more  than  he  needed.  She  must  do  exactly 
as  the  doctor  had  ordered.  Things  would  find  themselves. 
They  would  manage.  ...  He  took  the  prescriptions  from  her 
and  hastily  went  to  fill  them.  He  was  losing  control  over 
himself.  .  .  .  Poor  Elsie,  poor  Fred!  .  .  . 

March  winds  were  blowing.  Spring  was  approaching,  the 
spring  Fred  Conrad  had  looked  forward  to  painfully,  long- 
ingly, for  two  winters  and  a  summer.  He  had  thought  that 
when  he  was  within  six  —  four  weeks  of  his  release  from 
prison  every  moment  of  his  day  would  be  a  song.  .  .  .  But 


26o  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

it  was  not.     A  somber,  sinister  look  had  come  over  him. 

His  friends  —  he  had  made  several  friends  among  the 
prisoners  —  ascribed  Conrad's  gloom  to  his  worry  over  the 
future.  The  world  was  a  pretty  cold  place  for  an  ex-convict. 
Fred  might  have  difficulty  in  getting  on  his  feet  again,  they 
mused.  But  it  was  not  this  that  was  worrying  him.  It  was 
a  sudden  and  uncanny  feeling  that  something  had  gone 
wrong  at  home,  with  his  family.  Since  Christmas  this  feel- 
ing had  been  vaguely  boring  its  way  into  his  heart.  There 
was  something  about  Elsie's  letters  that  was  not  reassuring, 
not  entirely.  They  were  nice,  of  course,  but  they  did  not 
seem  so  vigorous.  Elsie's  handwriting,  too,  had  undergone 
certain  changes.  At  times  it  was  not  at  all  like  her  writ- 
ing. It  seemed  weak,  uncertain,  as  if  she  might  have  found 
it  hard  to  lift  the  pen.  .  .  .  Was  it  because  she  was  tired  — 
he  was  under  the  impression  that  every  letter  of  hers  was 
written  in  the  evening  —  or  was  she  sick  ? 

His  suspicions  were  confirmed  in  Elsie's  final  letter  to  him 
in  prison.  Within  three  weeks  he  would  be  out.  There  was 
no  hiding  things  much  longer  from  him.  So  she  broke  the 
news  to  him  gently.  She  wrote  that  she  had  not  been  well 
a  good  part  of  the  winter.  Her  chest  was  troubling  her. 
Her  lungs  had  not  been  as  strong  as  they  might.  But  she 
expected  that  she  would  get  better  now  that  spring  was  com- 
ing and  he  would  be  home  once  more.  .  .  . 

Fred  was  thunderstruck.  The  lack  of  firmness  in  her 
handwriting  was  unmistakable.  He  gazed  at  the  letter  and 
knew  that  it  had  cost  his  wife  great  effort.  Elsie  was  ill, 
broken  by  fate,  by  him.  The  Elsie  of  the  letter  was  not  the 
Elsie  he  had  known,  that  he  had  left  a  year  and  a  half  ago. 
Her  spirit  was  gone;  her  flesh  was  wasting.  .  .  .  He  went 
about  in  a  daze  and  did  his  work  mechanically.  He  ceased 
reading,  dreaming.  ...  He  was  conscious  of  only  one  de- 


PEACE  261 

sire  —  to  be  home,  among  his  own,  once  more,  to  face  what- 
ever had  come  upon  them.  .  .  . 

He  wrote  one  last  letter.  It  was  brief.  He  would  com- 
municate again  with  them  when  he  was  outside  the  prison 
walls.  .  .  . 

The  telegram  from  Fred  came  at  six  o'clock  in  the  eve- 
ning. He  was  telegraphing  from  the  railway  station,  a  free 
man.  He  was  starting  for  home  that  night  and  would  ar- 
rive in  New  York  early  on  the  second  morning.  .  .  .  Elsie 
did  not  sleep  a  wink  that  night.  She  wept.  In  the  morn- 
ing they  had  to  have  the  doctor.  He  forbade  all  excitement 
and  gave  her  something  to  put  her  to  sleep.  But  she  was 
up  again  in  the  afternoon.  As  evening  approached  she  be- 
came restless.  She  talked  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream.  Ruth 
became  frightened  and  sent  Robert  to  call  their  grandfather. 
Gottfried  came  and  sent  for  the  doctor  at  once.  But  before 
the  physician  arrived,  Elsie  had  a  hemorrhage.  A  nurse  was 
necessary.    Elsie  could  not  be  left  alone  a  moment.  .  .  . 

Fred  stepped  off  the  train  and  looked  about.  He  had  still 
hoped  that  Elsie  would  be  there  to  meet  him.  He  had  been 
looking  forward  to  that  meeting  since  they  had  parted  in 
the  Red  Bank  jail.  With  all  his  gloomy  forebodings  he  was 
unable  to  conceive  that  Elsie  might  be  fatally  ill  —  lost  to 
him.  So  he  gazed  about,  thinking  that  perhaps  she  might 
have  been  looking  for  him  a  car  or  two  ahead.  .  .  .  Then 
he  saw  the  gaunt  form  of  his  father  searching  for  him  in 
the  crowd.     Ruth  was  at  the  old  man's  side. 

Fred  made  no  motion  to  grasp  his  father's  extended  hands. 
He  gazed  at  them  speechless,  horrified. 

"  She  is  living.  Papa!  "  Ruth  burst  into  tears  as  she  per- 
ceived her  father's  terrified  eyes.     "  She  is  just  a  little  sick 


262  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

this  morning.  But  the  doctor  said  she  would  soon  be  all 
right.     Robert  is  home  with  her.  ..." 

Fred  grabbed  his  daughter  and  held  her  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 
She  was  just  like  Elsie  —  the  child.  She  understood  his 
questions  before  he  asked  them. 

In  the  car  father  and  son  were  absorbed  in  earnest  con- 
versation. It  was  a  sad  welcome  for  his  son,  but  the  thing 
could  not  be  hidden  any  longer  and  it  was  best  to  prepare 
Fred.  So  Gottfried  spoke  to  his  son  without  looking  at  him. 
.  .  .  He  told  him  the  whole  truth. 

Ruth  pointed  out  to  her  father,  who  was  holding  her  hand, 
the  house  they  lived  in.  She  ran  into  the  hall  and  up  the 
stairs  ahead  of  them.  .  .  .  Elsie  heard  their  footsteps  and 
made  an  effort  to  rise.  But  the  nurse  remonstrated  with  her 
and  gently  put  her  head  back  on  the  pillow.  ...  As  the 
nurse  stepped  aside  Elsie  saw  her  husband  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  .  .  .  She  summoned  all  her  strength 
and  stretched  her  hands  out  to  him.  .  .  .  But  Fred  made  no 
move.    He  could  not  see  for  tears.  .  .  . 


BOOK  III 
RUTH  CONRAD 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WITH    THE   EYES   OF    YOUTH 

ELSIE  lingered  for  fifteen  months.  For  some  time  she 
was  at  a  hospital,  but  when  the  end  was  nearing  she 
begged  to  be  taken  home.  She  wanted  to  be  near  her  chil- 
dren, near  Fred.  .  .  .  The  children  worried  her.  What 
would  become  of  them?  She  would  soon  be  lost  to  them, 
and  Fred.  ...  As  she  watched  her  husband  with  her  fevered 
eyes  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  children  were  already  father- 
less. .  .  .  Fred  was  so  changed;  he  was  no  longer  him- 
self. .  .  . 

Shortly  upon  his  return  home  Fred  had  found  work  in 
one  of  the  large  bakeries.  Nearly  a  thousand  men  were  em- 
ployed in  the  bread  factory  and  few  if  any  of  them  belonged 
to  the  union.  No  one  there  had  the  slightest  notion  who 
Conrad  might  be,  nor  cared.  The  work  was  done  on  a  strict 
factory  basis.  Men  went  to  their  benches  with  the  whistle 
and  quit  with  the  whistle.  There  was  no  talking  during 
working  hours,  no  passing  of  jokes,  as  was  the  case  in  the 
small  bakeries  where  only  half  a  dozen  or  so  men  were 
employed  and  a  new  man  was  known  from  the  start.  A 
man  could  lose  himself  easily  here.  It  was  a  splendid  place 
for  self-effacement  and  that  was  precisely  what  Fred  in  his 
broken  mood  wanted. 

The  dream  of  California,  of  a  farm  there,  of  going  far 
away  from  New  York,  from  the  men  and  places  he  had 
known,  had  remained  fixed  with  him  throughout  his  impris- 

265 


266  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

onment.  Even  Elsie's  letter  telling  him  of  her  sickness  could 
not  down  this  dream.  On  the  contrary,  now  more  than  ever 
California  was  the  place  for  him.  He  read  in  the  prison 
library  stories  of  men  broken  in  health,  men  with  their  lungs 
eaten  away,  who  had  found  a  new  lease  on  life  in  the  high 
altitudes  of  California  mountains.  That  was  the  very  place 
for  Elsie.  ...  He  had  meant  to  spend  only  a  week  or  less 
at  home  and  then  he  would  start  for  the  West.  .  .  .  But  the 
dream  was  shattered.     Elsie's  life  was  ebbing.  .  .  . 

Outwardly  Fred  Conrad  was  seemingly  normal.  Prison 
had  aged  him  rapidly,  but  that  apparently  was  all.  Inwardly 
however  he  was  changed.  His  mind  lost  much  of  its  mobility. 
There  was  a  fixed  gaze  in  his  eyes.  He  was  trying  to  be 
sensitive  and  considerate,  but  this  immobility  got  the  best 
of  him  every  time.  His  talk  was  as  remote  as  his  gaze.  He 
always  seemed  as  if  he  had  something  on  his  mind,  some- 
thing troublesome;  that  he  was  about  to  reach  a  momentous 
decision.  Men  just  before  they  decide  to  commit  suicide 
often  talk  and  act  that  way.  And  Gottfried  for  some  time 
was  apprehensive  of  his  son.  He  inquired  after  Fred's  going 
and  coming  from  Robert,  his  alarm  not  always  successfully 
concealed.  ... 

In  time  Gottfried  became  accustomed  to  Fred's  apathetic 
ways.  There  was  no  occasion  to  fear  suicide  —  it  was  not 
that  bad.  Fred's  spirit  was  broken,  but  his  mind  was  not 
unbalanced.  Such  things  frequently  happened.  Gottfried 
had  himself  known  such  cases.  Only  men  of  extraordinary 
character  could  throw  off  the  effect  of  imprisonment  lightly. 
Most  men  were  shaken  loose  by  it.  The  thing  was  entirely 
mental,  spiritual,  and  life  was  the  only  physician,  time  the 
only  cure.  Time,  he  hoped,  would  bring  Fred  around  to 
normal  again. 

Late  one  night  Gottfried  was  sitting  at  Elsie's  bedside, 


WITH  THE  EYES  OF  YOUTH  267 

He  came  in  every  evening  after  closing  his  store.  The  chil- 
dren were  sleeping.  Fred  was  not  home;  he  was  working 
nights  and  would  not  return  before  six  in  the  morning. 
Gottfried  made  some  fresh  tea,  helped  Elsie  prop  herself  up 
in  bed  and  gave  it  to  her.  He  asked  after  Fred;  he  had  not 
seen  him  that  day.  She  answered  in  a  feeble  voice.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  she  gave  Gottfried  back  the  half  full  cup  and  lay 
down.  She  was  weeping.  Gottfried  was  gazing  through 
the  open  window  at  the  tenement  across  the  street.  ...  He 
had  no  heart  to  take  from  his  daughter-in-law  the  relief  which 
tears  brought  her.  .  .  .  Words  of  cheer  were  so  meaningless 
now.  She  was  dying  and  she  knew  it.  It  was  a  question 
of  weeks,  perhaps  only  days.  .  .  . 

Her  voice  was  so  low  that  it  was  several  moments  before 
Gottfried  became  aware  that  Elsie  was  speaking  to  him. 
He  leaned  over  close  to  her. 

She  was  speaking  about  the  children.  They  were  still  so 
young  —  and  Fred  was  in  such  a  bad  way  himself  —  They 
would  need  looking  after  —  and  she  was  so  alone —  She 
had  no  sisters —  And  her  brother  she  had  not  seen  in 
years  —  Gottfried  would  have  to  look  after  the  children  — 
He  was  the  only  one  —  It  would  be  hard  for  him,  but  he 
would  have  to  do  it  —  for  Fred  was  so  —  so  — 

But —  And  slowly,  every  move  costing  her  great  effort, 
she  brought  her  face  close  to  Gottfried's  and  looked  into  his 
eyes,  as  if  trying  to  give  emphasis  with  her  gaze  to  the  words 
which  her  tongue  was  uttering  feebly.  But  —  he  would  have 
to  look  after  the  children  with  the  eyes  of  youth  —  with 
the  eyes  of  youth —  She  repeated  the  phrase.  .  .  .  She 
wanted  a  sign  of  recognition  from  her  father-in-law,  a 
sign  that  he  understood  her  —  understood  what  she  meant  — 
with  the  eyes  of  youth  —  She  sank  back  exhausted,  moan- 
ing— 


268  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Gottfried  bent  over  still  nearer,  took  her  frail  bony  hand 
in  his  and  stroked  it  gently.     Big  tears  fell  from  his  eyes. 

Elsie's  death  seemed  to  have  thawed  Fred  back  to  life. 
He  was  looking  after  the  children  more.  Upon  returning 
from  work  in  the  morning  he  would  help  Ruth  with  her 
work  —  the  girl  had  left  school  and  was  keeping  house  for 
him.  He  supervised  Robert's  breakfast  and  v/ould  not  go 
to  sleep  until  after  the  boy  had  left  with  his  school  books. 
He  had  the  flat  whitewashed  and  began  to  put  his  neglected 
household  in  order  once  more.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  observed  these  things  with  relief.  He  was  hop- 
ing that  the  crisis  in  Fred's  life  was  passed,  that  his  son 
would  pull  himself  together  once  more.  Gently,  without  un- 
due intrusion,  he  was  trying  to  veer  Fred  around  to  a  proper 
sense  of  his  new  duties.  It  was  part  of  his  faithfulness  to 
Elsie's  memory,  Gottfried  was  saying,  for  Fred  to  hold  his 
ground.  .  .  .  The  children  needed  care.  He  must  make  up 
to  Ruth  and  Robert  for  their  great  loss.  .  .  .  Fred  must  be 
both  father  and  mother  to  them  now.  .  .  .  He  must  not  let 
grief  sweep  over  him,  and  inundate  his  sense  of  duty. 

The  years  of  Fred's  imprisonment  and  of  Elsie's  illness 
had  weighed  heavily  upon  Gottfried.  He  was  tired.  During 
these  trying  years  he  had  been  robbed  of  many  a  night's 
sleep.  Many  were  the  days  he  went  breakfastless.  Fre- 
quently sudden  grief  would  cause  him  to  forget  his  supper. 
...  He  was  yearning  for  a  rest  and  was  glad  to  see  his  son 
returning  to  normal  again,  ...  He  could  relax  a  bit.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  reaction  from  the  years  of  watchfulness  and 
worry  that  lulled  Gottfried  into  a  sense  of  too  great  security ; 
for  Fred's  interest  in  the  house  began  to  wane  in  a  short 
time  and  the  whole  burden  of  it  fell  upon  Ruth's  shoulders. 
The  girl   struggled  bravely  with   it.  .  .  .  She  never   com- 


WITH  THE  EYES  OF  YOUTH  269 

plained,  never  crossed  her  father  with  a  word.  .  .  .  She  was 
looking  at  him  with  the  eyes  her  mother  set  into  her.  Her 
father  had  been  wronged  by  life.  He  had  been  imprisoned, 
martyred.  It  was  up  to  her  mother,  when  she  was  living, 
and  to  Ruth  now,  to  assuage  her  father's  suffering  as  much 
as  possible.  .  .  .  When  Gottfried  came  he  found  everything 
in  the  house  in  seeming  order.  Ruth  had  not  a  word  to  say 
to  her  grandfather  about  her  father's  neglect,  about  his  slip- 
ping back  into  the  state  of  chronic  brooding  which  character- 
ized him  during  her  mother's  illness.  Gottfried's  optimism 
about  the  state  of  affairs  in  his  son's  household  grew  per- 
ceptibly.    The  awakening  was  terrible  when  it  came. 

The  trouble  began  with  Robert.  He  had  become  negligent 
in  his  school  work.  In  the  latter  part  of  February  the 
teacher  wrote  a  letter  of  complaint  to  the  boy's  father.  But 
Fred  never  saw  the  letter.  Robert,  who  expected  such  a  let- 
ter, had  lain  in  wait  for  the  postman  and  upon  securing  the 
missive  tore  it  up.  A  few  days  before  Easter  another  letter 
came.  The  charges  against  Robert  were  more  serious.  He 
was  unruly  and  had  absented  himself  from  school  alto- 
gether too  frequently.  He  brought  excuses,  to  be  sure,  but 
these  frequent  absences  were  endangering  his  chances  for 
advancement.  Ruth  read  the  letter,  talked  it  over  with  Rob- 
ert. Both  were  terrified  and  decided  to  hide  the  matter  from 
their  father. 

But  it  was  weighing  on  Ruth's  mind.  Her  nerves  were  on 
edge  from  the  winter's  drudgery.  She  had  no  decent  clothes 
and  her  appearance  as  well  as  Robert's  was  sadly  neglected. 
Frequently  at  night,  when  her  father  was  at  work  and  Rob- 
ert was  sleeping,  she  would  lie  awake  and  cry  over  their 
difficult  lot.  Why  was  Mother  taken  from  them  so  early? 
Why  was  Father  so  strange  in  his  actions?  Why  was  Rob- 
ert always  in  trouble  with  his  teachers  ?    Why  — 


270  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Spring  came  unusually  early  that  year.  The  last  part  of 
April  summer  was  in  the  street.  Ruth  could  not  stand  stay- 
ing in  the  house  at  night  alone,  brooding.  She  would  wait 
until  Robert  was  asleep  and  then  would  steal  out  of  the 
house  into  the  street  below  and  sit  until  midnight  and  some- 
times until  daybreak,  so  that  Fred  would  have  difficulty  in 
waking  her  in  the  morning  when  he  returned  from  his  night's 
work. 

Across  the  street  from  the  Conrads  lived  a  Mrs.  Shannon, 
a  widow,  with  a  half  dozen  children  to  support.  Mrs.  Shan- 
non's oldest  son,  Danny,  a  year  older  than  Ruth,  worked  as 
a  messenger  boy  during  the  day.  Mrs.  Shannon  herself 
would  leave  home  at  five  in  the  afternoon  and  would  not 
return  before  two  in  the  morning.  She  was  scrubbing  offices 
in  the  business  district.  Danny  Shannon,  after  putting  his 
younger  brothers  and  sisters  to  sleep,  would  go  down  into  the 
street  and  loaf  around  the  block,  or  sit  on  a  garbage  can  and 
smoke  a  cigarette  and  dream.  He  observed  Ruth  sitting 
alone  several  nights.  She  saw  him  taking  care  of  his  younger 
brothers.  They  were  neighbors  and  they  soon  became  friends 
and  would  sit  up  together.  Danny  said  he  was  waiting  for 
his  mother,  but  he  always  managed  to  slip  into  the  house  just 
a  few  minutes  before  Mrs.  Shannon's  return. 

In  the  course  of  his  work  as  a  messenger  boy,  Danny  would 
pick  up  a  few  nickels  every  day  in  tips.  Mrs.  Shannon  was 
always  on  the  lookout  for  tliese  nickels,  but  the  boy  man- 
aged to  divert  one  or  two  from  time  to  time.  He  would  buy 
fruit  or  candy  with  it  and  he  and  Ruth  would  share  it  long 
after  the  street  was  asleep.  .  .  . 

Ruth's  ardor  for  the  house  was  gone.  There  were  more 
letters  from  school  about  Robert.  But  no  one  paid  attention 
to  letters  now  —  it  was  too  fearful  a  subject  to  broach.  Ruth 
and  Robert  both  waited  for  the  worst  with  stolid  fatalism. 


WITH  THE  EYES  OF  YOUTH  271 

.  .  .  The  teacher  called  on  the  Conrad  home.  She  called 
around  six  o'clock  and  no  one  was  in.  There  were  more 
calls,  investigations.  Agents  of  the  Juvenile  Society  were 
making  inquiries  among  the  neighbors.  The  plight  of  the 
Conrad  household  traveled  from  tongue  to  tongue.  It  reached 
Gottfried's  ears  and  struck  him  like  a  knife.  .  .  .  His  prom- 
ise to  Elsie.  ...  He  was  to  look  after  the  children.  .  .  . 
Instead  he  had  been  indulging  in  rest  and  sleep.  .  .  .  He 
hardly  knew  where  he  was  that  afternoon  and  evening.  A 
little  before  nine  he  could  not  keep  himself  back  any  longer. 
He  closed  the  store  and  started  almost  at  a  run  for  Fred's 
house  to  have  a  look  at  Ruth  and  Robert.  He  was  too  late. 
The  agents  of  the  Juvenile  Society  had  been  there  ahead  of 
him  and  had  gathered  them  in.  .  .  . 

The  case  as  presented  to  the  court  by  the  Juvenile  Society 
looked  sinister  enough.  It  was  an  appalling  record  of  neg- 
lect that  the  household  of  Fred  Conrad  presented.  The  fa- 
ther was  working  nights.  The  boy  and  the  girl,  both  of 
adolescent  age,  when  the  vigilant  eye  of  parents  is  absolutely 
essential,  were  left  alone  with  every  facility  for  wrong- 
doing. And  mischief  there  was  a-plenty.  Robert's  record 
in  school  was  a  sufficient  indictment.  But  bad  as  the  record 
was  it  was  a  marvel  that  it  was  not  worse.  For,  after  all, 
it  was  a  record  of  mischief  only.  The  Juvenile  Society  gladly 
gave  the  boy  credit  for  that.  The  wonder  was  that  with 
every  opportunity  for  it  the  boy  had  not  actually  drifted  into 
crime.  .  .  . 

Upon  Ruth  the  officers  looked  with  greater  concern.  She 
was  older  than  Robert.  She  was  sixteen,  or  near  it.  In 
many  ways  she  was  still  a  child,  but  in  many  other  ways  she 
might  be  looked  upon  as  a  woman.  The  agents  would  not 
make  any  rash  accusations  against  her  —  it  was  not  policy 


272  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

with  the  society  to  be  reckless  in  the  use  of  language  against 
a  girl  of  such  tender  age,  and  a  first  offender.  They  in- 
tended to  be  charitable,  very  charitable.  But  then,  Danny 
Shannon,  the  boy  with  whom  she  had  been  roaming  nights, 
was  a  messenger  boy,  "  a  boy  about  town,"  and  was  known 
to  be  too  sophisticated  for  an  innocent  young  girl  to  be 
friendly  with.  Besides  —  there  came  whispered  testimony  by 
one  of  the  society's  agents.  He  had  trailed  the  children  one 
night  and  had  found  Ruth  sitting  with  Danny,  her  head  in 
his  lap,  sleeping.  .  .  .  Serving  as  a  sinister  background  in 
the  written  record  of  the  case  was  Fred  Conrad's  term  in  the 
penitentiary.  .  .  . 

Fred  Conrad  was  called  to  the  witness  stand.  From  the 
day  his  children  had  been  taken  from  him  two  months  had 
elapsed.  They  had  been  terrible  months.  Day  in  and  day 
out  he  dragged  himself  from  one  branch  of  the  society  to  the 
next,  from  one  official  to  another  in  search  of  his  children, 
pleading  in  vain  for  their  restoration.  He  begged,  made 
promises,  but  his  pleas  were  ignored.  And  now  his  children 
were  there  in  open  court.  His  woes  had  been  dragged  out 
before  the  eyes  of  the  world.  The  agents  of  the  Juvenile 
Society  were  laying  bare  his  most  intimate  life  with  utter 
unconcern.  The  only  thing  that  seemed  to  interest  them  was 
to  justify  their  interference  in  his  family  affairs  before  the 
Judge. 

Hardly  had  his  interrogator  finished  framing  his  ques- 
tion when  Fred  Conrad  went  to  pieces.  He  had  lost  all  con- 
trol over  his  feelings.  He  hissed  and  gesticulated.  He  as- 
sailed, denounced,  threatened.  ...  It  was  injustice,  the  rank- 
est cruelty.  .  .  .  The  Juvenile  Society  was  tyrannous.  Its 
agents  were  insincere,  prying  busybodies!  They  were  out- 
raging all  human  decencies.     They  were  turning  the  law  into 


WITH  THE  EYES  OF  YOUTH  273 

an  instrument  of  torture.  .  .  .  They  were  barbarous  inquisi- 
tors. .  .  . 

The  investigators  of  the  Juvenile  Society  smiled  frigidly  at 
these  remarks  of  the  irate  father.  The  Judge  —  Smiley  was 
his  name  —  listened  to  Fred  with  an  air  that  seemed  just  the 
least  bit  bored.  He  was  accustomed  to  such  outbursts  by 
angry  parents.  Fred  Conrad  had  convicted  himself.  The 
case  was  closed.  The  Judge  reserved  decision.  Ruth  and 
Robert  were  taken  back  to  the  detention-room  for  the  present, 
while  Fred  looked  on  helplessly.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  had  listened  to  Fred's  incoherent  speech  with 
bowed  head.  His  son  had  not  had  a  good  night's  sleep  in 
these  two  months.  It  was  inevitable  that  he  should  go  to 
pieces  as  he  did.  But  the  children  must  not  be  made  to 
suffer  for  the  shattered  state  of  their  father's  nerves.  The 
Judge  must  know  something  of  his  son's  life,  of  his  suffer- 
ing. He  would  go  to  the  Judge  himself.  He  would  lay  the 
matter  before  him  in  the  right  light.  The  Judge  was  hu- 
man, all  men  were.     He  would  be  susceptible  to  pity.  .  .  . 

Judge  Smiley  was  a  young  man  not  more  than  thirty-five. 
He  was  put  in  charge  of  the  Juvenile  court  because  of  his 
reform  tendencies.  He  was  looked  upon  in  certain  quarters 
even  as  a  sort  of  socialist.  .  .  .  When  Gottfried  Conrad  was 
shown  into  his  chambers  he  half  rose.  The  tragic  dignity 
with  which  the  tall  white-haired  man  carried  himself  lifted 
him  out  of  his  seat. 

Gottfried  apologized  for  his  son's  outbreak.  He  was  not 
attempting  to  excuse  it  but  to  explain  it.  Fred  Conrad  had 
suffered  a  great  deal  since  the  death  of  his  wife  and  prior  to 
her  death.  He  was  a  sick  man.  It  was  not  really  his  son 
but  he,  Gottfried  Conrad,  who  was  to  blame  for  the  condi- 
tion Ruth  and  Robert  were  in.  He  had  neglected  them  and 
he  had  no  business  to  neglect  them.     However,  if  the  court 


274  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

would  entrust  Ruth  and  Robert  to  him,  would  award  him  the 
custody  of  his  grandchildren,  he  would  take  the  very  best 
care  of  them  in  the  future.  His  means  were  sufficient.  His 
store  was  giving  him  a  livelihood. 

Judge  Smiley  looked  at  him.  He  was  greatly  moved  by 
the  man's  speech,  by  the  innate  nobility  of  his  manner.  But 
Gottfried  was  old,  he  was  past  sixty.  The  jurist  studied  the 
papers  in  the  case  for  some  moments  and  fell  to  thinking. 

"  I  see,"  he  addressed  himself  to  Gottfried  finally,  "  that 
your  wife  is  not  living.  And  you  reside  back  of  the  store. 
It  is  a  business  place  you  would  bring  the  children  into,  and 
with  no  woman  to  look  after  them.  I  am  afraid  it  is  no 
place  for  your  granddaughter.  About  the  boy  it  is  different. 
I  should  have  no  hesitancy  whatever  about  giving  you  the 
boy.  But  the  girl,  at  Ruth's  age  —  it  is  a  delicate  mat- 
ter. .  .  ." 

Gottfried  began  speaking  about  Ruth.  He  knew  the  child, 
had  helped  raise  her.  He  could  vouch  for  her.  She  had 
had  a  splendid  mother.  In  all  the  testimony  of  the  agents 
for  the  Juvenile  Society  nothing  vitally  derogatory  to  the 
girl's  character  had  been  disclosed.  The  child  in  her  loneli- 
ness had  accepted  the  company  of  a  lad  as  lonely  as  herself. 
She  was  found  sitting  beside  the  boy  at  midnight,  tired 
asleep,  her  head  against  his  breast,  on  his  lap.  ...  It  was 
more  pitiful  than  criminal.  .  .  . 

Judge  Smiley  agreed  with  Gottfried  as  to  the  pitifulness  of 
the  case.  It  was  far  from  his  mind  to  condemn  Ruth.  But 
the  problem  was  to  safeguard  the  girl  in  the  future  —  that 
was  his  chief  concern,  that  was  what  the  Juvenile  court  was 
there  for.  Now,  his  son's  home  beyond  all  question  was  no 
place  for  the  girl.  And  he,  Gottfried  Conrad  was  an  old 
man.  A  girl  at  Ruth's  age  is  a  problem  in  a  city  like  New 
York  even  when  she  has  a  mother.     She  is  doubly  so  when 


WITH  THE  EYES  OF  YOUTH  275 

the  mother  is  dead  and  the  father's  state  is  such  as  in  this 
case.  .  .  . 

The  Judge  was  pondering,  and  Gottfried  was  silent,  wait- 
ing. 

"  Is  there  any  church  or  denomination  your  granddaughter 
or  her  mother  adhered  to?  "  The  Judge  turned  upon  Con- 
rad suddenly. 

Gottfried  felt  a  warmth  rise  to  his  face.  A  weak  protest 
died  in  the  fragment  of  an  instant.  He  recalled  Fred's  wed- 
ding —  the  Episcopal  minister. 

"  Episcopalian,"  he  said  faintly. 

The  Judge  brightened  instantly.  Episcopalian!  That 
was  very  fortunate.  He  would  not  send  Ruth  to  an  insti- 
tution —  that  would  be  out  of  all  proportion  to  her  offense. 
There  was  an  Episcopalian  home  —  the  Home  of  Redemp- 
tion —  just  the  place  for  cases  such  as  Ruth.  Of  course  the 
Home  of  Redemption  may  be  full  up  just  now.  But  he  would 
call  Sister  Agatha  on  the  telephone  personally  and  would  see 
to  it  that  she  made  a  place  for  Ruth.  He  would  give  the 
girl  an  indeterminate  sentence.  As  soon  as  conditions  at 
home  improved  she  would  be  permitted  to  return  without 
delay.    It  was  a  very  fortunate  outcome.  .  .  . 

To  Gottfried  the  outcome  was  far  from  fortunate.  In  fact 
so  depressed  was  he  by  it  that  he  had  almost  got  home  before 
he  recalled  that  the  Judge  had  given  him  an  order  which  was 
to  free  his  grandson.  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  found 
the  envelope  with  the  order  in  it.  He  took  the  car  back  to 
the  Juvenile  Society.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  Robert  in 
his  custody.  The  boy  was  greatly  frightened  and  was  heart- 
broken over  his  parting  from  his  sister.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   SONG   OF   THE   FLESH 

TWO  years  had  passed.  It  was  Ruth's  birthday  —  she 
was  eighteen  years  old  —  and  Fred  Conrad  obtained 
permission  from  Sister  Agatha,  the  superintendent  of  the 
Home  of  Redemption,  to  spend  an  hour  with  his  daughter. 
Sister  Agatha  was  averse  to  the  slightest  infraction  of  the 
institution's  discipline,  but  she  granted  Fred  Conrad  per- 
mission to  see  his  daughter  that  morning  right  gladly.  Ruth 
was  convalescing  from  a  week's  illness,  and  the  superintend- 
ent knew  from  experience  that  nothing  restored  a  girl  more 
quickly  than  a  visit  from  a  relative.  The  strain  of  confine- 
ment and  the  dreariness  of  seclusion  were  at  the  bottom 
of  many  of  the  ailments  to  which  the  girls  succumbed  period- 
ically, and  these  yielded  to  nothing  so  readily  as  to  a  familiar 
voice,  a  loved  face.  The  girls  were  always  more  agreeable 
after  a  visit  from  a  relative  or  friend. 

Fred  and  his  daughter  were  alone  in  the  big  dormitory 
that  April  morning;  Ruth  was  the  only  patient  that  day. 
The  hospital  room  had  the  choicest  location  in  the  entire 
building;  it  overlooked  the  Hudson.  Father  and  daughter 
stood  for  some  time  in  front  of  the  grated  window,  observing 
the  silvery  waves  on  the  water,  listening  to  the  hiss  and  tear 
of  a  fast  motor-boat  and  to  the  more  ponderous  noises  of  a 
steamer.  Fred  gazed  on  the  water  and  on  the  craggy  shore 
of  New  Jersey  sadly.  .  .  .  Poor  Ruth!  How  tantalizing  it 
was  to  be  so  near  these  things,  so  near  freedom,  and  yet  to 

276 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  277 

be  a  prisoner.  His  position  was  equally  humiliating.  It 
was  maddening  to  think  that  he  had  to  accept  his  daughter's 
imprisonment  helplessly.  .  .  .  He,  her  father,  could  do  noth- 
ing for  her,  had  no  say  over  her.  .  .  .  Permission  to  see  her 
that  morning  was  a  privilege  for  which  he  was  expected  to 
be  thankful.  She  was  in  the  hands  of  the  law ;  the  law  took 
her  from  him.  .  .  .  What  a  terrible  law  —  to  take  a  daugh- 
ter from  a  father! 

Ruth,  on  her  part,  was  observing  her  father.  It  did  not 
escape  her  how  bad  he  looked.  He  was  going  down  fast. 
The  hair  about  his  temples  was  all  white  and  only  the  last 
time  he  had  visited  her  it  was  still  gray.  There  was  no 
strength  about  him  physically,  and  mentally  things  were 
worse.  She  wanted  to  talk  to  him  about  the  future,  her  fu- 
ture, their  future.  She  should  be  leaving  the  institution  soon 
now.  .  .  .  But  she  refrained  from  speaking  about  this.  Her 
father  looked  so  weak;  she  did  not  wish  to  tax  him  with 
further  troublesome  thoughts.  They  would  talk  these  things 
over  some  other  time,- perhaps  when  he  and  her  grandfather 
came  to  visit  her  together.  .  .  . 

Fred  gazed  at  his  daughter  and  was  both  happy  and  em- 
barrassed. .  .  .  Ruth,  his  little  Ruth,  was  a  woman  now;  she 
was  eighteen  years  old.  If  Elsie  could  but  see  her !  Elsie  — 
Ah,  yes!  If  Elsie  had  lived  they  would  not  be  sitting  there 
in  that  room  with  grated  windows.  He  stared  at  the  bars  in 
front  of  him  with  a  peculiarly  reminiscent  look.  He  was  try- 
ing to  think  of  something,  recall  something.  ...  Ah,  yes,  he 
had  it.  .  .  .  It  was  that  night  in  prison  —  the  night  when 
he  nearly  went  mad,  because  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
vision  of  his  son  Robert  in  prison  stripes,  Robert  behind 
prison  bars.  Ah,  he  remembered  that  night.  .  .  .  But  it  was 
Ruth,  not  Robert,  who  was  destined  to  feel  life's  iron  hand. 
...  He  had  wept  for  the  wrong  child.  .  .  . 


278  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

The  hour  was  nearly  up  and  Ruth  began  speaking  to  her 
father  hastily.  Always  at  the  last  moment  she  had  a  thou- 
sand questions  ready.  And  she  would  think  of  many  others 
after  he  had  gone.  She  clung  to  his  arm  in  these  last  mo- 
ments tenderly,  pathetically.  ... 

There  was  no  mirror  in  the  ward  and  Ruth  studied  her 
arms,  her  limbs,  her  form,  separately,  and  then  tried  to  com- 
pose a  picture  of  herself  in  her  mind.  .  .  .  She  was  pleased 
with  the  imaginary  picture;  she  was  handsome.  She  felt 
strength  coming  to  her,  shooting  upward  through  her  limbs. 
Her  skin  was  abloom.  Life  was  confiding  its  secrets  to  her; 
it  was  whispering  hope.  All  trials  end  —  her  prison  term, 
too,  would  end  and  freedom  would  be  hers  once  more.  The 
world  would  be  before  her.  .  .  . 

She  gathered  up  her  gingham  dress  of  faded  blue  —  the 
regulation  garb  of  the  institution  —  and  surveyed  her  hips. 
They  were  shapely,  magnificent.  .  .  .  She  studied  her  bust. 
Through  the  sack-like  waist  her  breasts  were  clearly  outlined. 
She  watched  their  rhythmic  rise  and  fall  for  some  moments 
and  blushed  with  satisfaction.  .  .  .  She  was  a  woman  grown 

—  she  was  eighteen.  .  .  .  There  was  jubilee  in  her  brain. 
Her  body  was  making  its  debut  to  the  world.  Her  blood 
was  singing  a  paean  to  the  flesh.  .  .  . 

The  spell  of  the  day  was  on  her  —  she  dreamed  dreams. 
There  was  a  lonely  rocker  in  the  hospital  room.  She  moved 
it  to  the  window  and  sat  down.  She  undid  her  hair  and  let 
the  wind  play  with  her  tresses.    Wonderful  tresses  they  were 

—  long  and  soft,  of  lustrous  brown.  .  .  .  Her  mother  had  al- 
ways been  so  fond  of  her  hair,  had  taken  such  care  of  it.  .  .  . 
Poor  Mother !  She  thought  of  that  little  mound  in  the  ceme- 
tery. .  .  .  She  had  not  been  there  for  so  long,  so  long.  .  .  . 
A  tear  ran  down  her  cheeks;  others  followed,  but  she  made 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  279 

•no  effort  to  wipe  them.  It  was  sweet  to  lean  back  in  the 
chair  and  long  and  dream  and  let  the  tears  soothe  her 
pain.  .  .  . 

A  faint  sigh  coming  from  some  one  near  her  broke  the 
spell.  Sister  Agatha  was  standing  in  the  room  with  another 
woman,  a  visitor.  Ruth  arose  and  remained  standing.  In 
Sister  Agatha's  presence  the  girls  were  at  attention.  In  her 
surprise  at  not  having  heard  the  superintendent  and  visitor 
enter,  Ruth  forgot  her  tears. 

"  What  makes  you  so  sad,  child?  "  the  visitor  asked,  com- 
ing  up  close  to  the  girl.  Ruth  studied  the  stranger  as  care- 
fully as  the  latter  studied  her.  The  woman's  voice  was  soft, 
as  if  from  suffering.  Ruth's  own  voice  sounded  that  way  at 
times,  and  she  wondered  what  the  cause  of  the  other's  sad- 
ness might  be. 

"  You  have  been  crying,"  the  visitor  continued.  "  Why 
have  you  been  crying?  " 

"  It  is  my  birthday,"  Ruth  blurted  out.  The  thought  had 
been  uppermost  in  her  mind  and  she  spoke  it. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Eighteen." 

"  May  I  ask  your  name?  "  The  woman  spoke  apologet- 
ically as  if  she  feared  that  she  was  becoming  too  inquisitive, 
too  personal.  But  Ruth  answered  gladly.  She  liked  the 
woman,  liked  her  for  her  unhappy  eyes.  It  was  unusual  — 
an  unhappy  look  in  a  woman  so  beautifully  gowned,  so  rich. 
Sister  Agatha  never  brought  visitors  to  the  institution  unless 
they  were  very  wealthy. 

"  Ruth  Conrad,"  she  replied.     **  Ruth,  my  name  is." 

"  Ruth !  "  the  visitor  exclaimed,  and  her  eyes  filled. 
"  Ruth  —  it  is  such  a  nice  name.  My  sister  was  called 
Ruth.  She  was  just  a  year  older  than  you.  She  died  last 
winter.     She  was  thrown  from  a  horse  and  killed. 


28o  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"  May  I  come  to  see  you  again  ?  "  the  woman  said  as  she 
extended  her  hand  to  Ruth  in  farewell. 

Ruth  looked  embarrassed.  The  visitor's  conduct  was  so 
unusual.  Most  women  visitors  made  a  spectacle  of  the  girls 
in  the  institution,  looked  upon  them  as  an  experiment.  She 
detested  these  women,  detested  them  and  their  riches.  But 
this  woman  was  different. 

It  was  not  for  Ruth,  however,  to  say  whether  the  visitor 
could  call  again  or  not.  She  looked  in  embarrassment  to 
Sister  Agatha.  The  superintendent  gently  piloted  the  visitor 
out  of  the  room. 

The  following  afternoon  a  carriage  drove  up  and  Mrs. 
Avery's  maid  —  that  was  the  visitor's  name  —  gave  the  su- 
perintendent a  parcel  for  "  Miss  Conrad."  Sister  Agatha  in 
person  took  the  package  to  Ruth.  It  was  a  birthday  present 
from  Mrs.  Avery,  a  beautiful  hair  brush  and  several  other 
toilet  articles.  ...  It  seemed  to  Ruth  that  the  superintend- 
ent's attitude  toward  her  was  changed;  there  was  a  defer- 
ence in  it.  And  Ruth  was  right.  Sister  Agatha  had  had 
much  experience  with  people.  She  had  watched  Mrs.  Avery 
as  the  latter  was  talking  to  Ruth  and  immediately  sensed 
that  the  society  woman's  interest  in  the  girl  was  likely  to 
prove  more  than  a  transient  fancy.  Something  would  come 
out  of  it.  Ruth  might  not  have  been  bom  with  a  spoon  in 
her  mouth,  but  her  birthday  had  been  a  lucky  one  for 
her.  .  .  . 

Few  girls  at  the  Home  of  Redemption  stayed  there  as  long 
as  Ruth  had.  It  was  policy  with  the  institution  to  return  a 
girl  to  her  parents  after  the  lapse  of  a  year  or  so,  when  it  was 
thought  that  the  girl,  or  her  parents  —  or  both  —  had  re- 
formed sufficiently  for  the  family  to  be  reunited.  Where  a 
girl  had  no  home  to  return  to,  or  where  the  home  appeared 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  281 

unsuitable  to  the  institution's  investigators  and  officials,  a 
new  "  home  "  was  found  for  her.  Finding  a  home  for  a  girl 
usually  meant  turning  her  over  to  some  family  outside  of 
New  York  City,  and  preferably  outside  of  the  state,  to  be- 
come a  servant. 

As  there  was  no  visible  improvement  in  Fred  Conrad's 
health  and  affairs  Sister  Agatha  repeatedly  had  tried  to 
place  Ruth  in  such  a  "  home,"  but  the  girl  fought  it  off  every 
time.  She  would  rather  serve  the  maximum  term  the  law 
could  hold  her  to  —  three  years — and  then  be  returned  to 
her  family  than  gain  freedom  through  exile  from  her  peo- 
ple. Fred  sided  with  his  daughter  in  this  view,  and  though 
Sister  Agatha  took  great  pains  to  make  it  clear  to  Conrad 
that  he  had  no  say  whatever  in  the  matter,  that  his  daughter 
was  a  ward  of  the  institution  and  entirely  within  the  hand 
of  the  law,  nevertheless  the  father's  protest  was  not  without 
moral  effect.  Ruth  stayed  on  at  the  Home  awaiting  the 
day  when  the  law  would  relinquish  its  grip  on  her. 

When,  after  several  visits  and  talks  with  Ruth,  Mrs. 
Avery  expressed  to  Sister  Agatha  her  wish  to  take  Ruth  un- 
der her  roof,  to  give  the  girl  a  home,  and  asked  the  latter's 
advice,  the  superintendent  viewed  the  matter  very  sympa- 
thetically. Sister  Agatha  had  come  to  have  quite  a  regard 
for  the  girl.  Ruth  was  a  model  inmate  and  was  of  a 
finer  character  than  most  of  the  other  girls  in  the  place. 
There  was  no  question  that  she  would  make  good.  Mrs. 
Avery  would  be  well  served,  Ruth  would  be  given  a  splendid 
start  and  the  institution  could  be  benefited.  .  .  .  The  credit 
for  Ruth's  fine  behavior  could,  to  a  degree  at  least,  be  trans- 
ferred to  the  Home  of  Redemption,  to  the  training,  counsel, 
friendship  the  girl  had  received  there.  .  .  .  Sister  Agatha, 
in  her  mind,  already  saw  large  donations  to  the  institution 


282  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

from  Mrs.  Avery  and  her  friends,  and  perhaps  even  a  legacy. 
And  legacies  were  what  the  institution  needed.  They  were 
its  principal  support. 

To  Ruth  the  offer  of  a  home  with  Mrs.  Avery  seemed  like 
a  dream  —  and  that  was  why  she  asked  time  to  think  it  over. 
Young  though  she  was,  life  had  already  played  havoc  with 
her  dreams  and  she  was  mistrustful.  She  wanted  to  consult 
with  her  father  —  and  with  her  grandfather.  When  Sister 
Agatha  saw  what  was  troubling  Ruth,  she  modified  Mrs. 
Avery's  offer.  She  eliminated  the  fairy  aspect  of  it  and 
made  it  appear  more  of  a  business  transaction.  What  Mrs. 
Avery  wanted  was  a  lady's  maid.  Good  maids  were  hard 
to  get;  the  best  of  them  were  obtained  by  training  only,  and 
Mrs.  Avery  meant  to  train  Ruth  for  the  job.  That  put  a 
different  complexion  on  the  matter. 

Gottfried  recoiled  when  the  proposition  to  have  Ruth  go 
to  work  in  a  rich  home  was  laid  before  him.  The  thought 
was  abhorrent  to  him.  He  had  a  dislike  for  personal  service 
of  any  kind.  It  was  undemocratic.  In  an  ideal  society 
there  would  be  no  domestics.  For  Ruth  to  become  the  serv- 
ant of  a  rich  family  was  especially  humiliating.  He  was 
coming  to  have  such  a  high  regard  for  her.  It  was  not  only 
the  girl's  suffering  that  endeared  her  to  him.  He  was  com- 
ing to  see  a  likeness,  a  link  between  himself  and  his  grand- 
daughter. It  seemed  to  him  that  Ruth  was  temperamentally 
nearer  to  him  than  either  his  son  or  grandson,  though  he  had 
no  complaint  to  make  of  Robert;  the  boy  was  growing  up 
firmly  under  his  grandfather's  watchful  eyes.  But  the  girl 
was  of  sterner  stuff.  He  had  faith  in  Ruth,  faith  in  her 
ability  to  meet  a  situation.  She  would  bear  up  under  diffi- 
culties much  better  than  her  father.  She  would  not  break. 
Fred's  inability  to  pull  himself  together  was  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  the  old  man.    He  was  brooding  over  it  constantly. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  283 

It  was  this  faith  in  the  girl,  however,  that  in  the  end  pre- 
vented Gottfried  from  expressing  himself  strongly  against  the 
girl's  proposed  entry  into  the  Avery  home.  After  all,  it  was 
Ruth  who  was  imprisoned  —  for  the  institution  life  by  what- 
ever name  it  might  be  called  was  imprisonment;  she  had  been 
imprisoned  for  two  years.  The  girl's  inherent  strength,  he 
hoped,  would  save  her  from  going  to  extremes,  from  becom- 
ing either  servile  or  snobbish.  Freedom  was  the  most  pre- 
cious thing  in  life.  It  was  especially  precious  to  a  girl  of 
eighteen.  Ruth  might  save  a  whole  year  by  accepting  the 
Avery  offer.     Gottfried  was  silent. 

Fred  urged  his  daughter  to  accept  the  offer.  It  would 
give  her  her  freedom  at  once  and  would  not  take  her  away 
from  New  York,  from  him.  Yes,  it  might  even  lead  to  a 
future.  Connections  were  everything  in  this  world,  and  his 
influence  was  nil. 

The  great  tragedy  in  Mrs.  Avery's  life  was  the  fact  that 
she  had  no  children  —  would  never  have  any,  though  she 
had  not  passed  the  age  when  women  normally  do  have  chil- 
dren. Her  husband,  William  Orcutt  Avery,  was  the  presi- 
dent of  a  Western  railroad.  He  was  director  and  vice-presi- 
dent in  a  dozen  or  more  mining  and  manufacturing  corpora- 
tions, all  of  which  were  located  west  of  Denver.  Money  was 
literally  flowing  to  him  faster  than  he  could  keep  track  of  it, 
but  the  more  he  accumulated  the  less  time  he  had  for  his 
home  and  his  wife. 

In  the  early  years  of  their  married  life,  when  Mr.  Avery 
was  the  vice-president  of  a  New  York  bank  and  before  he 
had  gone  into  the  railroad  business,  Mrs.  Avery  was  rather 
glad  that  children  had  not  come.  They  needed  to  entrench 
themselves  socially  and  it  was  a  great  help  to  be  unencum- 
bered,    It  w^s  when  her  husband  had  left  the  bank  for  the 


284  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

wider  field  of  building  and  running  railroads,  when  their 
social  position  was  assured,  that  she  began  to  think  about 
having  a  child.  She  consulted  a  physician.  He  advised  her 
to  take  extra  care  of  her  health.  She  must  begin  building 
up  her  body,  making  it  fit  and  inviting  for  motherhood. 
Mrs.  Avery  became  engrossed  in  the  study  of  proper  living. 
She  discarded  the  corset  and  followed  fads  in  food  and 
dress.  Five  years  passed  in  such  preparations.  She  became 
impatient  and  sought  out  a  specialist.  He  held  out  no  hope ; 
she  would  never  be  a  mother.  She  might  as  well  make  up 
her  mind  to  it  and  spare  herself  unnecessary  pain. 

That  was  nearly  ten  years  back,  but  she  had  never  recov- 
ered from  the  blow.  Society  had  lost  its  charm.  It  had,  in 
fact,  become  irksome  to  her  and  she  quickly  transferred  her 
interest  to  social  service,  which  was  then  in  the  ascendancy 
and  to  which  many  rich  women  were  turning  their  attention. 
She  contributed  generously  to  the  building  of  a  settlement 
house  in  one  of  the  poorer  districts,  helped  finance  the  Young 
Women's  Christian  Association,  became  a  sustaining  mem- 
ber in  several  clubs  which  aimed  to  help  the  struggling  chil- 
dren of  the  slums,  and  lately  had  been  taking  an  interest  in 
unfortunate  young  women  and  girls  who  had  "  fallen  by  the 
way."  She  visited  the  various  institutions  which  she  helped 
support,  and  tried  to  give  "  something  of  herself,"  as  she 
expressed  it,  to  the  poor.  It  was  almost  second  nature  with 
her  to  be  democratic,  yes,  even  apologetic  to  the  poor  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact,  as  if  she  felt  herself  at  least 
partly  responsible  for  their  condition.  It  was  this  innate 
humility  of  hers  that  made  Mrs.  Avery  a  welcome  visitor  at 
every  institution.  The  unfortunates  she  talked  to  felt  no 
resentment  against  her. 

At  the  death  of  her  mother  some  four  years  previous  —  her 
father  had  died  long  ago  —  Mrs.  Avery  had  transferred  all 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  285 

her  unused  motherly  affections  to  her  family  —  Edward 
Sumner  Channing,  a  brother  and  her  sister  Ruth,  both  of 
them  considerably  younger  than  herself.  Edward  had  mar- 
ried two  years  back  and  only  the  previous  winter  her  only 
sister  met  with  a  tragic  death.  She  went  out  riding  in  Cen- 
tral Park  one  afternoon.  An  hour  later  she  was  brought 
home  with  a  broken  neck. 

With  the  death  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Avery  was  thrown  once 
more  upon  herself  for  company,  interest,  consolation.  Her 
husband  was  more  than  ever  away  from  home.  Mr.  Avery 
often  complained  that  he  was  like  the  man  who  had  "  caught  " 
a  bear.  When  asked  why  he  was  not  coming,  he  explained 
that  the  bear  was  holding  him.  Mr.  Avery,  too,  was  held  — 
in  the  grip  of  business  pressure.  Though  he  could  well  af- 
ford to  take  a  rest,  business  would  not  permit  it.  Time  and 
again  he  had  made  plans  for  a  trip  around  the  world,  but 
always  the  right  man  upon  whom  he  could  shoulder  his  work 
and  duties  either  could  not  be  found  or  was  not  available  just 
then,  and  the  plans  had  to  be  abandoned.  Mr.  Avery  con- 
tinued to  spend  his  nights  in  Pullman  compartments  or  ho- 
tels and  his  days  in  conferences,  giving  orders,  signing  con- 
tracts—  and  his  wife  became  lonelier  than  ever.  Her 
sister's  death  had  thrown  her  off  the  beaten  track  completely. 
The  house  was  abhorrent  to  her.  She  tried  to  escape  from 
herself.  She  made  frequent  trips  to  the  slums,  talked  to 
poor  people,  listened  to  their  sorrows  and  tragedies,  and  by 
comparison  her  pain  was  often  stilled.  .  .  . 

But  these  excursions  into  the  nests  of  misery  and  suffering 
could  not  make  her  forget  entirely.  The  house  was  lonely. 
She  missed  a  human  voice,  familiar  footsteps.  She  hated 
dogs.  She  considered  it  a  travesty  to  make  a  pet  of  an 
animal  when  so  many  children  were  drying  up  for  the  want 
of  a  caress.     She  thought  for  a  time  of  adopting  a  child. 


286  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

but  could  not  bring  herself  to  make  some  one  else's  child  her 
own.  She  could  not  love  it  as  she  would  her  own.  If  she 
could  only  adopt  some  one's  company,  some  one's  friendship, 
sympathy,  without  adopting  the  person  itself !  She  had  been 
thinking  of  these  things  when  she  came  upon  Ruth  in  the 
hospital  ward  of  the  Home  of  Redemption.  The  girl's  face, 
the  tears  not  intended  for  a  stranger's  eye  which  ran  down 
her  cheek,  and  her  name  —  the  name  her  dead  sister  had 
borne  —  accentuated  the  longing  for  a  person  in  the  house, 
a  person  who  would  banish  that  awful  stillness  there.  Ruth 
was  the  very  person.  There  was  such  a  softness  about  her 
eyes.  She  was  so  different  from  any  of  the  other  girls.  And 
she  was  good  to  look  at,  presentable.  She  wouldn't  be  out 
of  place  anywhere.  Mrs.  Avery  would  make  a  friend  of  her, 
a  real  friend.  However,  Sister  Agatha  was  right;  there  was 
no  harm  in  using  caution.  It  might  be  well  not  to  tell  the 
girl  the  whole  truth.  She  would  ask  Ruth  to  come  to  her 
as  a  maid,  as  Sister  Agatha  urged.  She  would  lift  the  barrier 
between  them  gradually.  .  .  . 

Margaret  Channing  —  Mrs.  Avery's  maiden  name  —  came 
from  a  family  that  had  figured  strongly  in  the  Abolitionist 
cause.  There  were  legends  in  the  family  about  Edward 
Sumner  Channing,  her  grandfather,  who  had  had  a  hand  in 
the  escape  of  many  a  negro  slave  and  whose  money  had 
financed  many  an  Abolitionist  publication.  Mrs.  Avery,  as 
a  child,  had  listened  to  these  stories  about  her  grandfather 
with  a  fond  pride.  It  had  been  her  hope  to  tell  them  to  her 
own  children.  This  was  not  to  be,  but  the  memory  of  her 
Abolitionist  grandfather  urged  her  on  to  many  an  act  of 
kindness  toward  her  fellow  men. 

Her  brother,  Edward  Sumner  Channing,  was  named  after 
the  grandfather  and  with  the  name  the  boy  seemed  to  have 
inherited  his  grandfather's  love  of  freedom,  as  well  as  of 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  287 

adventure.  Young  Channing  had  been  brought  up  in  afflu- 
ence —  his  grandfather  had  amassed  a  great  deal  of  property 
which  yielded  the  family  a  large  income.  He  was  sent  to 
Yale  and,  as  he  was  not  fond  of  athletics,  his  love  of  free- 
dom and  adventure  passed  over  into  a  vague,  restless  moodi- 
ness which  he  could  not  always  explain  to  himself.  At  times 
he  deplored  the  age  he  was  living  in.  His  grandfather  had 
been  more  fortunate;  there  were  slavery  and  a  civil  war  in 
his  day.  There  was  work  for  a  man  to  do,  a  wrong  to 
right,  while  in  his  own  day  everything  was  small,  warped. 
Men  either  gave  vent  to  their  passions  by  going  after  gold, 
or  else  learned  to  deaden  their  yearnings  with  whiskey.  .  .  . 
Into  this  latter  class  young  Channing  had  fallen  as  a  student. 
An  interest  in  socialism,  which  was  just  then  prominently 
asserting  itself  among  a  certain  class  of  wealthy  Americans, 
was  awakened  in  him  by  his  sister's  ramblings  among  the 
poor.  But  it  was  soon  overshadowed  by  another  interest  — 
a  girl.  Being  of  a  tempestuous  nature,  his  love  for  the  girl 
—  the  daughter  of  a  banker,  an  associate  of  Mrs.  Avery's 
husband  —  was  extremely  passionate.  In  six  months  he  and 
Emmeline  French,  one  of  the  season's  debutantes,  were  mar- 
ried. But  they  did  not  "  live  happy  ever  after  "  and  Chan- 
ning was  turning  more  and  more  to  his  sister  for  advice  and 
sympathy  in  his  unhappy  union.  .  .  . 

He  had  heard  of  his  sister's  "  adventure,"  as  he  called  it, 
with  Ruth  Conrad,  but  he  had  been  out  of  town  at  the  time 
and  it  was  not  until  Ruth  had  been  at  the  Avery  home  for 
nearly  a  month  that  Channing  saw  her.  He  drove  up  one 
afternoon.  Mrs.  Avery  was  in  her  boudoir  and  Ruth  was 
alone  in  the  music-room.  Channing  extended  his  hand  cor- 
dially. 

''  You're  little  sister,  aren't  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  Ruth,"  she  replied,  embarrassed.     But  he  would 


288  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

not  let  her  explain  further.  He  chattered  away  carelessly 
about  his  affairs,  his  prolonged  absence  from  the  city,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  member  of  the  family.  As  he  talked  he  ob- 
served the  girl  with  a  well-concealed  amazement.  Ruth  ex- 
ceeded even  the  glowing  description  Mrs.  Avery  had  given 
of  her.  There  was  a  grace  of  carriage  in  her  that  many 
a  girl  born  to  the  home  and  society  in  which  Ruth  had  lived 
but  a  month  could  not  show. 

"  She's  a  thoroughbred,  all  right,"  he  mused  as  he  studied 
her.  What  a  wonderful  figure!  And  her  hair  —  he  had 
never  seen  its  equal.  She  radiated  health  and  restfulness. 
There  was  nothing  nervous  about  her.  It  was  evident  that 
she  would  not  go  into  hysterics  over  trifles.  She  had  a  sound 
mind  in  a  sound  body.  It  was  thus  he  had  always  pictured 
to  himself  the  ideal  woman  —  calm,  self-possessed,  strong,  a 
Venus  who  had  no  frazzled  nerves  and  whose  moods  were 
as  healthy  as  her  body.  She  seemed  thoughtful  beyond  her 
age,  and  while  she  was  not  shrinking,  and  seemed  to  have 
set  the  proper  value  upon  herself,  she  was  considerate.  She 
was  like  a  mother  respecting  the  privacies  of  her  son,  like 
a  sister  keeping  the  proper  distance  from  her  grown  brother. 

"  By  Jove!  "  Channing  exclaimed,  and  swallowed  the  rest 
of  his  thoughts.  They  were  rather  confused  thoughts,  re- 
flecting upon  many  things,  denting  many  an  ironclad  con- 
ventionality. .  .  . 

"  Oh,  you  know  each  other  already,"  Mrs.  Avery  said  as 
she  entered  the  room.  She  was  pleased  at  her  brother's  cor- 
diality to  Ruth,  at  the  utter  lack  of  superiority  in  his  conduct 
toward  the  girl.  It  was  just  what  she  might  expect  from 
Edward.  He  was  such  a  democrat  —  and  she  was  proud  of 
his  democracy. 

As  his  sister  came  in,  Channing's  face  clouded. 

"  More  trouble?  "  she  asked  uneasily. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  289 

"  Yep,  same  old  trouble."  He  tried  to  be  careless.  But 
in  the  next  instant  his  feeling  got  the  better  of  him.  It  was 
impossible  —  he  and  Emmeline  would  never  get  along. 
They  could  never  agree.  There  was  no  common  ground  be- 
tween them. 

Mrs.  Avery  pretended  to  be  angry  with  him,  with  both  of 
them.  They  were  acting  like  children.  They  were  chil- 
dren, that  was  what  was  the  matter  with  them.  It  was  time, 
they  became  sensible  and  stopped  scrapping  and  quarreling 
over  nothing. 

"  Now,  sister,  you  know  you  don't  mean  all  you  say," 
retorted  Channing.  "  You  know  Emmeline  and  I  can't  get 
along.  What  is  the  use  of  playing  the  same  old  game. 
You  are  not  deceiving  me  and  you  know  you  are  not  deceiv- 
ing yourself.  You  know  Emmeline  as  well  as  I  do.  You 
know  her  constitution,  you  know  her  temper,  her  nerves." 

"  There  you  are!  "  cried  Mrs.  Avery  in  despair.  "  That's 
what  comes  of  marrying  a  season's  debutante !  '* 

Ruth  was  uncomfortable.  She  felt  that  she  was  out  of 
place  at  this  airing  of  family  troubles  and  started  to  leave 
the  room,  but  Channing  called  her  back. 

"  It's  no  secret,"  he  said.  "  Everybody  knows  that  Em- 
meline and  I  don't  get  along.  You  will  hear  of  it  every  time 
I  come  here;  you  can't  escape  it."  He  said  these  last  words 
with  a  bitter  laugh.  But  he  turned  the  conversation  to  more 
agreeable  subjects. 

Channing  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  his  sister's.  There 
was  an  office  on  Fifth  Avenue  whose  glass  door  bore  his 
name  as  the  head  of  the  Channing  Estate,  but  his  presence 
in  or  absence  from  that  office  made  little  difference.  The 
business  of  the  Channing  Estate  was  carefully  and  properly 
transacted  by  its  trustees  and  agents.  And  into  any  corpo- 
ration business  which  would  require  his  active  participation, 


290  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Channing  steadfastly  refused  to  be  inveigled.  In  part  his 
refusal  to  go  into  business  was  to  be  accounted  for  by  his 
general  disposition,  which  did  not  incline  him  to  amass 
money.  In  part,  however,  it  was  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
his  father-in-law  who  was  most  insistent  in  his  attempts  to 
get  Channing  connected  with  a  bank  or  corporation.  Chan- 
ning disliked  his  father-in-law  and  took  malicious  pleasure 
in  turning  down  every  one  of  the  old  man's  carefully  worked 
out  plans. 

With  boyish  glee  he  would  narrate  how  he  was  side- 
stepping his  father-in-law's  plans  to  tie  him  to  an  office 
and  the  latter's  discomfiture  at  finding  that  the  bird  had 
flown.  He  visited  his  sister  almost  daily,  and  her  brother's 
increasing  troubles  now  supplied  Mrs.  Avery  with  a  fresh 
fund  of  worries.  She  was  talking  to  Ruth  constantly  about 
Sumner's  —  they  always  called  him  by  his  middle  name  — 
marital  troubles,  blaming  society  for  the  way  it  brought 
up  girls  in  frivolity,  without  a  thought  for  the  serious 
things  of  life.  Mrs.  Channing  she  called  a  spoiled  child, 
a  girl  of  a  season.  Emmeline  had  ruined  her  brother's  life. 
The  boy  was  becoming  too  unsettled  to  do  anything,  to  con- 
centrate on  anything. 

Ruth  listened  to  Mrs.  Avery's  plaints  and  at  first  they  only 
evoked  in  her  general  reflections  on  life.  She,  the  other  girls 
in  the  Home  of  Redemption,  had  always  thought  that  the 
poor  alone  are  not  happy.  Mrs.  Avery's  sad  face  taught  her 
that  the  rich  too  may  have  their  troubles.  And  now  she  was 
learning  more  and  more  of  these  troubles.  Happiness,  ap- 
parently, was  a  capricious  bird  and  insisted  on  building  its 
nest  wherever  it  pleased  its  fancy.  .  .  .  Her  ideas  about 
many  things  were  undergoing  great  changes. 

Gradually,  and  through  her  unbounded  sympathy  for  Mrs. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  291 

Avery,  her  thoughts  veered  around  from  the  general  to  the 
concrete.  Channing's  fate  was  beginning  to  take  a  foremost 
place  in  her  thoughts,  as  it  had  taken  in  the  thoughts  of 
Mrs.  Avery.  It  was  the  family  worry,  the  great  tragedy 
of  the  Avery  home,  and  she  was  now  a  part  of  this  family, 
of  this  home.  They  were  treating  her  as  such.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Avery  was  treating  her  like  a  sister.  .  .  .  She  was  open- 
hearted  with  her.  .  .  .  She  was  baring  her  soul  before  her, 
her  most  intimate  pains  and  griefs.  .  .  . 

Ruth  felt  herself  growing  day  by  day.  Her  vision  was 
broadening.  Her  heart  was  swelling  with  sympathy.  As 
the  stricken  member  of  the  family,  the  one  whose  life  had 
been  dislodged  from  its  proper  orbit  and  whose  happiness 
was  being  marred  daily,  Channing  came  in  for  a  good  share 
of  this  sympathy.  It  was  indeed  hard  not  to  sympathize 
with  him.  He  was  so  much  of  a  boy,  just  an  ordinary  boy, 
human,  eager,  simple.  (She  had  never  seen  his  wife;  Mrs. 
Channing  never  came  to  the  Avery  home.)  His  wealth  was 
of  little  consequence  to  him.  At  least  his  relations  to  other 
people,  to  Ruth,  made  it  seem  so.  His  relations  to  her  .  .  . 
Ruth  often  thought  of  them  at  night,  just  before  falling 
asleep,  or  in  the  morning  when  she  lay  in  bed  awake  and 
dreaming  ...  It  was  unbelievable  that  such  a  thing  could 
be  true,  but  true  it  was.  Channing  treated  her  like  one  of 
the  family;  like  a  sister.  Mrs.  Avery  was  grateful  to  her 
brother  for  his  generous  attitude  toward  Ruth;  she  thought  it 
so  manly  and  democratic.  .  .  . 

The  automobile  was  still  more  or  less  of  a  novelty  in  those 
days  and  Channing  had  the  best  runabout  on  the  market.  He 
frequently  took  his  sister  out  riding.  Once  he  asked  Ruth 
to  go  with  him.  Mrs.  Avery  was  out  and  he  had  to  have 
some  one  to  listen  to  his  troubles,  he  had  pleaded.     As  the 


292  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

summer  progressed  the  rides  became  more  frequent.  It  was 
hard  for  Ruth  to  refuse  him;  he  always  seemed  so  distressed, 
disconsolate;  he  was  suffering. 

And  then  out  of  the  clear  sky  it  came  —  a  subtle  change 
in  their  relations.  ...  At  first  Ruth  was  unwilling  to  admit 
it  to  herself.  .  .  .  Channing  had  said  nothing,  done  nothing 
to  change  their  relations.  But  the  change  was  there  none  the 
less.  ...  It  was  in  the  atmosphere.  There  were  moments 
when  Channing's  prolonged  gaze  would  send  the  blood  mount- 
ing to  her  cheeks.  ...  At  other  times,  when  he  spoke  to  her, 
she  was  aware  that  he  was  merely  making  conversation;  his 
thoughts  were  not  in  what  he  was  saying.  .  .  .  They  con- 
cerned themselves  witji  some  part  of  her  —  her  form,  her 
arms,  her  hair.  .  .  . 

The  change  frightened  her.  One  night  she  could  not  fall 
asleep  for  hours.  She  tossed  on  her  bed  and  wept.  She 
wanted  to  be  near  her  father,  her  grandfather.  She  felt  so 
unsafe  alone  among  strangers.  .  .  .  After  all  these  people 
were  strangers  to  her;  they  were  not  her  kind,  not  of  her 
class.  .  .  .  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  ask  Mrs.  Avery 
the  very  next  day  to  release  her  and  to  secure  her  discharge 
from  Sister  Agatha  and  from  the  court.  There  was  so  much 
red  tape  to  go  through  before  she  could  gain  her  freedom. 
But  perhaps  Mrs.  Avery  would  feel  for  her  and  would  use 
her  influence.  She  had  no  doubt  that  Mrs.  Avery  had  in- 
fluence. ...  In  the  morning,  however,  confidence  returned 
and  prudence.  .  .  .  She  had  better  let  well  enough  alone 
until  the  three  years  were  up;  then  she  would  find  her  way 
home  all  right.  .  .  .  They  could  not  hold  her  then.  .  .  . 

But  her  doubts  kept  recurring.  After  a  day  of  ease  and 
pleasure  night  would  find  her  alone  in  her  room,  brooding. 
At  times  she  was  alarmed.  She  had  made  a  mistake;  she 
should  not  have  gone  into  a  rich  home.  ...  It  would  make 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  293 

the  return  to  the  humble  surroundings  in  which  her  people 
lived  all  the  harder.  .  .  .  She  wished  she  had  never  met 
Channing.  .  .  .  She  could  not  get  him  out  of  her  mind.  .  .  . 
She  was  always  comparing  the  boys  she  had  known  in  her 
neighborhood  with  him.  .  .  .  She  felt  that  she  must  not  do 
it;  it  was  unfair  to  the  boys  of  her  class,  of  her  kind,  this 
comparison,  but  she  made  it.  And  what  sorry  figures  these 
express  drivers,  plumbers,  painters,  cut  beside  Channing.  .  .  . 
Yes,  her  going  into  the  Avery  home  was  a  grave  mistake.  .  .  . 
It  would  take  her  so  long  to  forget  her  new  surroundings,  to 
get  used  once  more  to  the  people  of  her  class,  to  their  humble 
lives.  .  .  .  The  more  she  became  accustomed  to  her  new 
surroundings,  the  more  the  feeling  grew  upon  her  that  things 
would  not  last.  .  .  .  She  would  have  come  back  to  her  people. 
.  .  .  She  should  have  gone  there  in  the  first  place.  ...  A 
grave  mistake.  .  .  . 

But  there  were  other  moments,  moments  when  she  yielded 
to  the  ease  and  softness  of  her  surroundings.  The  physical 
delight  of  her  existence  in  such  moments  swept  aside  her 
mental  scruples.  ...  It  was  sweet  to  live  as  she  was  living, 
sweet  to  be  treated  as  she  was  treated.  .  .  .  Channing  was 
spending  so  much  of  his  time  at  his  sister's  now.  .  .  .  His 
subtle  conduct  was  manifesting  itself  more  and  more.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  vague  challenge  in  it.  .  .  .  She  would  lie  with 
closed  eyes  for  a  long  time  trying  to  make  out  the  challenge. 
...  It  was  like  the  faint  echo  of  a  far  away  song.  ...  It 
was  nice  to  dream  even  if  one's  dreams  could  never  come 
true.  .  .  . 

Rain  had  kept  Channing  in  at  Mrs.  Avery's  one  whole 
afternoon  and  he  was  talking  to  Ruth  and  gazing  at  her. 
Though  he  had  known  her  for  months  he  found  something  in 
her  every  time  to  surprise  him.     She  seemed  to  him  the  most 


294  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

complete  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  She  seemed  to  radiate 
poise,  self-possession.  In  her  presence  he  felt  cheered, 
strengthened.  And  yet  she  was  so  young.  In  spite  of  her 
studied  poise  he  felt  that  she  was  as  vibrant  as  a  bow,  sensi- 
tive to  human  suffering,  alive  with  sympathy.  Her  innocent 
eyes  were  always  big  with  feeling. 

He  was  wondering  what  combination  in  the  girl's  life  had 
served  to  hammer  her  out  thus.  He  knew  her  history.  She 
had  been  an  inmate  of  an  institution.  She  had  known  and 
experienced  things  he  had  never  dreamed  of.  Was  it  this 
that  made  her  so  charming,  so  human,  so  lovable? 

"  So  your  father  went  to  prison  for  preaching  violence," 
he  said,  gazing  at  her  through  ringlets  of  smoke. 

Ruth  crimsoned  from  ear  to  ear  and  he  made  haste  to  ex- 
plain himself.  He  did  not  hold  this  against  her  father.  On 
the  contrary  —  he  — 

"  My  grandfather  missed  going  to  jail  —  and  perhaps  to 
the  gallows  —  by  a  hair's  breadth,"  he  explained,  "  and  I 
have  always  been  proud  of  him  for  it,  for  the  stand  he  took 
against  slavery.  I  often  wish  an  opportunity  had  come  to 
me  such  as  came  to  my  grandfather,  such  as  came  to  your 
father  —  an  opportunity  to  fight  for  a  cause  and  to  suffer 
for  it.  I  want  to  meet  your  father.  I  should  be  happy, 
honored,  to  meet  him.  I  hate  the  pack  myself.  I  mean 
Wall  Street,  the  traders  on  the  Exchange  who  gamble  in  the 
sweat  of  the  farmer  and  the  laborer.  I  would  like  to  see 
them  wiped  out.  The  world  would  be  better  for  such  a  house- 
cleaning.  .  .  . 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  am  crazy  to  talk  this  way,"  he 
continued;  "  I  who  am  a  man  of  wealth,  who  do  not  have 
to  do  a  thing  and  yet  can  have  all  the  food  and  drink  and  all 
the  luxuries  of  life.  But  I  tell  you  I  curse  my  money  every 
day.     My  people  sent  me  to  school,  to  college.     They  thought 


THE  SONG  or  THE  FLESH  295 

education  would  do  me  good,  would  make  life  sweeter  for  me. 
But  it  did  the  very  opposite.  It  made  me  unhappy.  It  made 
me  despise  my  class  —  myself.  Through  every  one  of  my 
studies  —  history,  literature,  science  —  there  seemed  to  run 
a  contempt  for  money  and  for  the  men  who  possessed  money. 
We  were  taught  to  admire  Socrates  and  Plato,  and  they  were 
poor  people.  We  were  taught  to  admire  the  poetry  of  Mil- 
ton and  he  had  written  his  '  Paradise  Lost '  when  he  was 
blind  and  poor.  They  taught  us  to  go  into  ecstasies  over 
Burns,  and  he  was  a  raw,  common  peasant,  ostracized  by 
*  good  society.'  The  scientists  and  philosophers  of  the 
Middle  Ages  whom  we  hold  in  high  esteem  either  were  in  jail 
or  were  having  the  time  of  their  lives  dodging  it.  Almost 
every  man  who  got  into  history  as  a  big  statesman,  a  big 
leader,  had  at  one  time  or  another  been  a  prisoner,  an  exile, 
or,  like  Cicero,  had  had  his  head  cut  off  and  hung  on  a  pole 
for  the  mob  to  gape  at.  You  hear  precious  little  about  the 
sons  of  the  upper  classes  in  Egypt,  Greece,  Rome,  or,  in  our 
own  day,  about  the  pampered  sons  of  the  French  aristocracy 
or  of  the  Russian  nobility.  But  you  do  hear  of  Proudhon, 
you  hear  of  Bakunin;  and  a  poor,  starved  epileptic  like  Dos- 
toyevsky  is  winning  fame  in  Europe  and  one  of  these  days 
will  capture  America.  History  seems  to  be  especially  partial 
to  the  poor.  Or  maybe  it  is  not  partial,  but  simply  just. 
The  poor  struggle  and  suffer  and  know  life.  They  are  denied 
justice  and  hence  they  learn  to  love  it,  to  fight  for  it  pas- 
sionately, heroically.  And  it  is  only  by  becoming  a  votary 
of  justice  that  one  begins  to  penetrate  the  charmed  circle  of 
fame  and  happiness.  ..." 

One  morning  in  September,  Channing  came  up  just  after 
Mrs.  Avery  had  left  the  house.  He  was  disappointed;  he 
had  wanted  to  talk  to  his  sister,  he  had  to  talk  to  her,  he 
said,    He  sank  into  a  chair  moodily  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 


296  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"  You  look  lovely  this  morning,  sister,"  he  remarked  as 
Ruth  passed  him. 

She  was  beautiful.  There  was  a  certain  ease  in  her  walk, 
in  her  carriage. 

"  Got  anything  special  on  for  this  morning  ?  "  Channing 
asked  a  few  minutes  later.  There  was  a  furtive  look  in  his 
face.  He  was  profoundly  unhappy.  Ruth  felt  sorry  for 
him.     Another  quarrel,  she  thought. 

No,  she  had  nothing  special  to  do  that  day. 

"  Suppose  you  come  for  a  ride  with  me?  "  he  suggested. 
"  It  is  a  perfect  morning  and  I'm  crazy  to  go  somewhere  — 
and  talk." 

Yes,  she  saw  that  he  was  crazy  to  talk,  and  she  was  not 
averse  to  listening  to  him,  if  there  was  any  comfort  in  it  for 
him.  But  she  thought  Mrs.  Avery  might  be  back  soon, 
might  perhaps  want  her. 

"  It's  all  right  about  sister,"  he  said.  "  I'll  leave  a  note 
for  her." 

Before  she  realized  it,  they  were  forty  miles  out  of  New 
York,  and  it  was  noon.  He  found  a  quiet  inn  and  they  had 
luncheon.  There  was  not  a  person  in  the  dining-room  be- 
sides themselves.  Channing  puffed  away  at  his  cigarette 
and  looked  at  Ruth.  It  was  strange,  very  strange,  that  he 
should  be  sitting  there  with  her,  and,  what  was  even 
stranger,  that  he  should  be  happy,  should  be  grateful  for  her 
company.  But  for  Ruth  he  would  have  had  a  miserable  day. 
She  had  saved  him  from  torture  —  from  himself. 

The  afternoon  was  going  to  be  as  perfect  as  the  morning. 
They  would  not  waste  a  minute  of  it.  They  climbed  into 
the  machine.  In  response  to  his  mood,  Channing  rode 
slowly.  They  passed  a  brook.  Urchins  from  a  nearby 
town  were  splashing  in  the  water.  He  stopped  the  machine 
and  they  watched  the  youngsters  for  some  minutes.     Two 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  297 

or  three  miles  farther  on  they  came  to  a  grove.  A  couple 
was  lying  under  a  tree,  talking  confidentially  —  lovers  or 
maybe  newlyweds  honeymooning. 

The  spell  of  the  woods  was  irresistible.  Channing  picked 
out  a  quiet  spot,  stopped  his  car  and  they  sat  down  on  the 
trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  .  .  .  Out  there  under  the  spell  of  the 
trees  it  seemed  almost  unbelievable  that  only  thirty  or  forty 
miles  distant  lay  one  of  the  world's  greatest  cities,  where 
millions  of  men,  poor  and  rich  alike,  were  struggling  like 
mad,  were  suffering,  dying.  .  .  .  Ruth  remarked  this  to 
Channing  dreamily.  Unconsciously  they  had  come  to  share 
each  other's  views  and  opinions  about  society,  about  life. 

Channing  looked  at  the  girl  and  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
known  her  for  years.  She  was  like  a  sister  of  his  —  she  was 
nearer.  She  shared  his  thoughts,  she  felt  his  pain.  He  saw 
it  in  her  eyes. 

His  mood  was  on  him  again.  He  talked  —  he  talked  to 
her  more  freely  about  himself,  about  Enmieline  than  he  had 
ever  done  before  to  any  one.  He  bemoaned  his  fate;  he 
fairly  sobbed  out  his  grief.  What  a  fate,  what  a  tragedy  at 
twenty-seven  to  have  one's  life  crossed  and  torn  as  his 
was.  .  .  . 

Ruth  had  not  tried  to  interpose  a  word  during  his  long 
speech.  His  sincerity,  his  suffering,  were  intense.  She 
thought  of  this  suffering.  She  forgot  their  difference  in 
station,  her  own  position.  He  was  a  man,  a  good  man, 
and  he  was  in  torture  —  tortured  by  life.  She  would  not 
change  places  with  him  for  anything.  What  good  was 
money  when  it  handicapped  one  so?  At  least  she  was  free 
—  and  he  was  not.  But  he  was  suffering.  Was  there  any- 
thing she  could  do  for  him?     Nothing?  .  .  , 

"  I  often  wish,"  Channing  was  concluding  one  of  his 
paroxysms,  "  I  often  wish  I  could  fall  asleep  and  wake  to 


298  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

find  myself  a  different  man,  just  a  human  being  with,  say, 
fifty  dollars  in  my  pocket.  I  would  go  out  and  get  work 
in  a  factory  or  a  warehouse,  or  maybe  I  would  go  on  a  farm. 
And  then  I  would  meet  a  girl  —  I  know  now  the  kind  of 
girl  I  would  like  to  meet  —  and  I  would  marry  and  we  would 
be  happy  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  —  that  is  all  a  man  lives 
these  days. 

"  But  it  is  only  a  dream,"  he  continued;  "  I  have  made  my 
bed,  as  the  saying  is,  and  I  must  lie  on  it.  I  loved,  or 
thought  I  loved,  a  hothouse  plant,  and  I  married  for  show, 
for  a  little  society  gossip,  for  a  write-up  in  the  papers,  and 
now  I  am  repenting  every  day  of  my  life.  God!  If  there 
were  only  a  way  of  putting  me  and  Emmeline  where  we  were 
three  years  ago,  and  leaving  us  there !  God !  If  things  could 
be  undone!  " 

Ruth  felt  it  her  duty  to  defend  his  wife.  But  his  sincer- 
ity, the  evidence  of  deep-felt  pain,  were  in  the  way.  She 
could  not  find  words  to  upbraid  him.  It  was  not  for  her 
to  judge.  It  was  one  of  those  tragedies  of  life  where  words 
are  best  left  unspoken.  She  rose  and  turned  away.  It 
seemed  to  Channing  that  he  saw  tears  in  her  eyes.  .  .  .  He 
was  up  in  an  instant  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  kissing 
her  face,  eyes,  hair.  .  .  .  She  was  inert,  as  if  in  a  faint,  for 
some  moments.  Then  she  began  to  plead  with  him  to  re- 
lease his  hold  on  her.  .  .  .  But  he  was  deaf  to  her  entreaties. 
He  held  her  closer,  closer.  .  .  . 

A  wild  look  came  into  her  face.  She  concentrated  the 
force  of  all  her  young  body  into  her  arms,  planted  her  el- 
bows against  his  chest,  and  his  clasp  came  apart.  Then  she 
ran.  He  overtook  her.  She  was  going  to  walk  to  the  near- 
est town  and  take  a  train  to  New  York.  He  pleaded  with 
her  to  return  with  him  in  his  car.  He  gave  her  his  word  of 
honor  he  would  not  talk  to  her,  not  say  one  word  to  her, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLESH  299 

but  would  have  her  home  in  forty  minutes.  He  would  not 
delay  a  moment. 

He  kept  his  word.  She  avoided  looking  at  him  all  through 
the  journey.  When  they  reached  home  she  ran  upstairs  to 
her  room  without  gazing  at  Channing,  without  speaking 
to  him.  .  .  . 

It  was  four  o'clock.  Mrs.  Avery  had  left  word  that  she 
would  not  be  home  before  six.  Channing  got  into  his  ma- 
chine and  started  off.  After  driving  a  dozen  blocks  he 
turned  back  to  his  sister's  house.  He  would  wait  for  her. 
He  lounged  about  in  the  library,  lit  a  cigarette,  but  tossed 
it  aside  half  smoked.  He  picked  up  a  book.  He  meant  to 
read  till  his  sister  came.  He  was  tr>'ing  to  fix  his  mind  on 
the  printed  page.  ...  He  threw  the  book  aside,  ran  up  a 
flight  of  stairs,  and  knocked  at  Ruth's  door. 

"  Come  in,"  she  called.  She  thought  it  was  the  maid. 
He  opened  the  door.  She  was  in  a  loose  gown  and  was 
braiding  her  hair.  Upon  seeing  him  she  trembled.  .  .  .  The 
blood  suffused  itself  through  her  face,  her  neck,  her  bosom, 
which  she  had  not  had  time  to  cover. 

Channing  closed  the  door  behind  him.  Ruth  turned  her 
head  away  and  took  a  step  forward.  She  was  facing  the 
wall.  There  was  no  escape.  He  was  at  her  side.  She  felt 
his  chest  against  her  shoulders.  He  put  his  arms  about  her. 
.  .  .  She  was  pleading  under  her  breath,  incoherently.  .  .  . 
He  was  drawing  her  down  to  the  sofa.  .  .  .  Her  struggles 
ceased;  she  begged  in  wild  alarm  .  .  .  she  threatened  .  .  . 
she  would  cry  out  .  .  .  scream,  faint  .  .  .  she  would  — 
He  was  kissing  her  lips  and  shoulder.  .  .  .  Her  speech  grew 
faint,  a  hoarse  whisper.  .  .  .  She  could  not  move.  Her 
body  was  limp.  .  .  .  Her  eyelids  were  heavy.  .  .  .  When  a 
child  she  often  felt  that  way  after  a  long  day  at  play  in  the 
street,  just  so  limp,  paralyzed.  .  .  .  She  was  trying  to  recall 


300  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

how  long  it  was  since  she  felt  —  arms  about  her  —  her  moth- 
er's arms  —  and  a  face  pressed  against  her  cheek,  throat,  a 
burning,  caressing  face.  .  .  .  But  her  mother  never  caressed 
her  so.  .  .  .  These  caresses  were  like  fire,  strange  —  as  if 
they  came  from  another  world.  ... 

Something  within  her  was  responding  to  these  caresses, 
drinking  them  in  like  quaffs  of  living  water.  Somewhere  in 
her  head  there  was  a  boring,  a  buzzing  — "  father,"  "  grand- 
father," "  wife,"  "  married  man,"  "  wrong."  But  —  within 
her  heart,  all  through  her  body,  a  song  was  resounding.  It 
was  an  irresistible  song,  and  it  was  familiar.  She  had  heard 
it  somewhere  before.  .  .  .  Where?  When?  Ah,  she  re- 
membered !  On  her  eighteenth  birthday.  It  was  the  song  of 
the  flesh.  .  .  .  But  it  resounded  mightier,  stronger  now.  .  .  . 
It  filled  the  universe  with  its  strains.  ...  It  was  sweeping 
everything  before  it,  drowning  all  voices.  .  .  .  Everything 
was  a  song.  .  .  .  The  buzzing  in  her  head  had  turned  to 
song.  Channing's  breath  was  a  song.  ...  It  had  become 
one  with  the  song  of  her  flesh.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

CLIPPED  WINGS 

IN  the  subway,  people  were  saying  that  it  was  going  to  be 
an  ideal  Thanksgiving  Day.  It  snowed  all  afternoon 
and  toward  evening  it  turned  cold.  Girls,  on  the  way  home 
from  work,  who  sat  or  stood  beside  Ruth,  were  talking  of  en- 
gagements that  night  and  the  next  day  and  evening.  It  was 
to  be  a  joyous  time.  The  toil  in  stores,  offices,  factories  was 
forgotten.  For  the  next  thirty  hours  every  one  was  to  drink 
his  or  her  fill  of  delight  and  happiness  from  the  bountiful 
breasts  of  life. 

"  If  things  could  be  undone,"  the  words  hammered  through 
Ruth's  head  as  she  listened  to  the  merry  chatter  of  the  girls 
and  gazed  in  their  faces,  which  were  happy  with  anticipation. 
It  was  Channing's  phrase.  Two  months  had  elapsed  since 
that  day  when  he  had  sat  beside  her  on  the  grass  and  talked 
and  talked  and  talked.  .  .  . 

Two  months!  But  they  seemed  to  her  like  years  —  dec- 
ades. What  had  not  she  thought  of  in  those  months! 
Doubt  and  despair  had  been  her  inseparable  companions. 
The  torment  of  sleepless  nights  was  hers,  who  used  to  sleep 
so  sound.  Even  in  the  institution,  in  the  Home  of  Redemp- 
tion, night  invariably  brought  rest  and  forgetfulness.  Every- 
thing was  changed  now.  .  .  . 

"  If  things  could  be  undone,"  Channing  had  wailed  that 
afternoon;  if  he  and  his  wife  could  but  be  put  back  where 
they  were  three  years  ago  —  Ruth  recalled  the  expression 

301 


302  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

with  which  he  had  spoken  those  words.  She  would  never 
forget  that  expression.  She  had  never  seen  a  man  so  tortured, 
so  unhappy.  She  recalled  how  she  had  thrilled  at  the  thought 
of  her  own  freedom  from  such  entanglements  as  bound  him. 
She  was  poor,  she  was  not  yet  entirely  released  from  the  insti- 
tution sentence,  but  at  least  her  person  was  free,  while  Chan- 
ning's  was  not.  Her  sympathy  for  him  that  afternoon  was 
endless.  But  to  change  places  with  him  —  never !  Nothing 
in  the  world  could  induce  her  to  part  with  her  peace  of  mind. 
.  .  .     And  then  —  and  then  — 

She  w^as  eating  her  dinner  in  a  quiet  restaurant  on  one  of 
the  side  streets  off  Broadway  when  the  memory  of  it  came  to 
her  and  her  jaws  suddenly  refused  to  do  her  bidding.  She 
could  not  swallow  the  mouthful.  The  knife  and  fork  fell 
from  her  hand.     Then  —  yes,  then.  .  .  . 

Well  she  had  lost  her  freedom.  Her  wings  were  clipped. 
Channing's  burden  had  become  her  burden;  his  tragedy  had 
become  her  tragedy.  Fate  linked  them  together.  From  the 
first  she  had  tried  to  break  the  link,  but  after  two  months  of 
struggle  it  was  still  unbroken.  She  and  Channing  were  still 
held  together  as  if  by  an  invisible  hand.  All  her  efforts  to 
free  herself  were  vain.     Why  were  they  vain? 

Yes,  why  were  they  vain?  Resting  on  the  couch  in  her 
apartment  an  hour  later  Ruth  sought  an  answer  to  this  ques- 
tion. She  sought  the  reason  for  her  being  there,  for  her  not 
being  with  her  father,  with  Robert,  with  their  grandfather  in 
some  little  flat  on  the  East  Side.  The  reason?  Channing 
was  the  reason.  Channing  held  her  in  his  grip.  But  he 
wouldn't  hold  her  much  longer.  Her  life  must  be  her's. 
She  would  speak  to  him.  She  would  insist.  What  did  he 
propose  to  make  of  her?  She  had  pitied  him  enough,  more 
than  enough.  She  would  grow  harsh,  if  necessary.  The 
thing  had  to  come  to  an  end.     She  must  be  released  from  this 


CLIPPED  WINGS  303 

gilded  cage.  She  must  be  allowed  to  return  to  her  peo- 
ple. .  .  . 

When  Channing  on  that  September  afternoon  released 
Ruth  from  his  arms  and  she  stood  dazed  and  trembling  before 
him  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  home  —  at  once.  She 
could  not  stay  under  Mrs.  Avery's  roof  another  day.  She 
would  go  back  to  her  father  and  he  could  obtain  her  release 
from  Sister  Agatha  and  send  it  to  her.  .  .  . 

With  his  sister  —  well,  he  would  have  to  fix  up  matters 
with  her  by  himself.  She,  Ruth  could  not  look  Mrs.  Avery 
in  the  face. 

Channing's  answer  was  a  plea  for  time  —  and  immediate 
silence.  He  would  arrange  everything  satisfactorily,  if  she 
gave  him  time.  Meanwhile  she  must  put  the  room  in  order. 
He  helped  her  straighten  things  up.  She  must  dress  and 
come  down  to  dinner  —  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He 
would  stay  to  dinner  and  the  next  morning  he  would  come  for 
her.  He  would  arrange  everything,  if  she  only  gave  him 
time  —  and  maintained  her  calm,  preserved  appearance.  .  .  . 

He  came  the  next  morning  and  took  her  in  his  car.  He 
drove  to  a  family  hotel  on  Broadway.  .  .  .  She  was  to  stay 
there  for  a  few  days  while  he  was  arranging  things  for  her. 

The  days  passed  over  into  weeks.  Channing  pleaded  for 
time,  more  time.  His  affairs  were  muddled.  He  needed 
time  to  straighten  them  out.  She  must  not  be  so  angry  with 
him,  it  made  him  unhappy,  it  hurt  him.  Why  was  she  hurt- 
ing him  ?  .  .  . 

He  was  a  pitiable  sight.  His  eyes  were  never  at  rest. 
He  spoke  and  acted  as  if  the  whole  world  were  after  him, 
were  persecuting  him.  His  brain  was  always  in  a  fever. 
The  sight  of  his  torments  unnerved  her.  She  could  not  see 
him  suffer  so.  She  would  wait  a  little  longer,  give  him  time. 
He  thanked  her.     He  was  kind  to  her,  hysterically  kind. 


304  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

There  were  moments  of  passion  and  forgetfulness.  .  .  .  She 
loved  him. 

But  a  climax  had  to  be  reached.  For  more  than  two 
months  now  the  thing  had  been  dragging  —  it  must  not  drag 
any  longer.  She  was  expecting  Channing  that  night.  He 
wrote  that  he  would  come,  even  if  only  for  a  few  minutes. 
She  steeled  herself.  She  would  not  be  swayed  by  pity,  she 
would  not  yield  to  caresses.  .  .  . 

He  brought  her  flowers  and  a  book  he  wanted  her  to  be  sure 
to  read.  ...  He  talked  about  the  weather  —  it  was  bracing  — 
she  must  go  for  a  ride  with  him.  He  had  more  time  than  he 
thought  he  would  have.     She  must  go  with  him. 

He  did  not  at  once  observe  the  immobile  expression  in 
Ruth's  face,  but  when  he  finally  did  notice  it  his  chatter 
ceased.  He  took  her  hand,  but  she  withdrew  it.  He  gazed 
at  her  apprehensively.  He  feared  to  utter  another  word.  .  .  . 
In  Ruth  the  thoughts  and  feelings  were  welling.  Finally  she 
spoke. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  she  was  saying.  "  How  soon  can 
I  go?  Have  you  talked  with  your  sister  yet?  How  soon 
can  you  two  arrange  it  with  Sister  Agatha  to  release  me,  to 
let  me  go?  " 

Channing  hardly  knew  what  to  say. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go?  "  he  asked  sheepishly. 

"  Why?  "  Ruth  repeated  with  suppressed  excitement.  Had 
she  not  known  Channing  better  she  would  have  thought  him 
base  to  ask  such  a  question.  As  it  was,  she  charged  it  up  to 
his  general  helplessness.  He  simply  did  not  know  what  else 
to  say.  "  Why  ?  Because  I  want  to  go  to  my  family.  I 
want  to  settle  down.     I  want  to  look  after  my  future  — " 

He  tried  to  put  his  arms  about  her.  But  she  pushed  him 
back  firmly  though  without  anger. 

"  There  is  no  basis  for  the  thing  we  are  doing,"  she  pro- 


CLIPPED  WINGS  305 

tested.  "You  are  married.  It  is  unfortunate  that  things 
should  have  happened  to  us  as  they  did.  Maybe  I  am  to 
blame  for  it  all  — "  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  floor.  "  However,  there  is  no  returning  the  past.  But 
arrange  it  so  that  I  can  go  now.  I  am  sure  your  sister  can 
procure  my  discharge  from  the  institution,  from  court  without 
any  trouble.  Please  get  it  for  me  and  let  me  go  back  to  my 
people.  I  must  begin  to  look  after  myself,  after  my  own 
life.  .  .  .  Other  girls  of  my  age  are  far  ahead  of  me." 

He  was  gazing  at  her  with  agonized  eyes.  He  had  wronged 
the  girl.  But  heaven  was  his  witness  he  had  not  meant  it 
that  way.  He  had  intended.  ...  He  had  been  keeping  his 
thoughts  from  her.  Should  he  tell  her  and  set  her  at  ease? 
No!  No!  He  must  not  speak  prematurely.  It  was  not  all 
clear  to  him  yet.  He  must  act  first;  then  speak.  He  was 
full  of  tenderness  once  more. 

"  But  you  said  you  loved  me  —  didn't  you  mean  it  then  ?  " 
He  was  gazing  into  her  eyes.  "  Don't  you  love  me  any 
more?  " 

She  was  silent.  His  suffering  had  not  escaped  her.  But 
the  thing  had  to  be  settled.  It  might  as  well  be  settled  at 
once. 

"  Don't  you  love  me  any  more,"  he  pleaded  again,  and  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  I  do,"  she  whispered. 

"  Then  why  leave  me?  " 

"  Because  you  don't  belong  to  me.  ...  I  can't  claim  you. 
.  .  .  Please  —  I  want  to  go  away  as  soon  as  you  can  arrange 
it.  .  .  .  Please  let  me  go.  .  .  ." 

He  was  weeping.  The  girl's  attitude  unnerved  him 
utterly.  She  had  not  a  word  of  reproach  for  what  he  had 
done  to  her.  The  poor  child!  He  kissed  her  hands,  he 
begged  her  forgiveness.     She  must  not  think  him  bad.  .  .  . 


306  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

He  would  rather  blow  his  brains  out  than  have  her  think  him 
one  of  the  rich  men  who  went  after  poor  girls,  who  took 
advantage  of  them.  ...  He  was  not  that  kind  of  man.  He 
loved  her  —  wanted  her.  He  wanted  her  above  everything 
in  the  world.  .  .  . 

He  lay  at  her  feet,  a  crumpled  heap.  She  helped  him  raise 
himself  and  he  laid  his  head  on  her  lap.  She  did  not  object. 
But  she  did  not  relinquish  her  calm  insistence.  He  need 
not  rob  himself  of  his  peace  of  mind.  She  was  not  blaming 
him,  nursed  no  grievances  against  him.  All  she  wanted  was 
to  be  allowed  to  go.  She  could  not  go  without  a  paper  from 
court,  from  Sister  Agatha.  It  was  up  to  him  to  get  the  paper 
for  her.  That  was  all  she  asked  of  him.  She  had  given 
him  time  enough  to  straighten  out  his  affairs.  There  had 
been  plenty  of  time.     She  could  not  wait  much  longer.  .  .  . 

She  was  daily  expecting  a  letter  from  Channing  telling  of 
the  progress  he  was  making  toward  obtaining  her  release. 
Instead  he  rushed  in  one  evening,  ten  or  twelve  days  later, 
and  announced  that  he  had  left  home. 

"  Emmeline  and  I  have  separated,"  he  said. 

Ruth  looked  at  him  dumbfounded. 

"Aren't  you  glad?"  he  asked,  irritated.  In  his  fevered 
brain  he  had  foreseen  a  different  welcome. 

Ruth  pleaded  that  she  was  tired  and  he  left  shortly.  He 
did  not  come  the  next  evening.  A  letter  on  the  following  day 
informed  her  that  he  did  not  come  because  he  was  being 
shadowed  by  detectives.  Mr.  French,  his  father-in-law,  had 
put  them  on  his  trail.  She  did  not  see  him  for  a  week. 
Then  he  sauntered  in  one  evening  with  seeming  boldness, 
though  Ruth  noticed  that  his  hand  trembled.  A  detective, 
he  said,  had  followed  him  right  into  the  hotel.  But  he  did 
not  care. 


CLIPPED  WINGS  307 

"  Now  they  know  it,"  he  said,  vainly  striving  to  look  un- 
concerned. "  Let  them  go  ahead  and  get  a  divorce,  and  I'll 
marry  you." 

Ruth  stepped  back  and  grasped  a  chair  for  support. 

"  But  I  can't  marry  you,"  .  .  .  she  finally  regained  her 
speech.  "Your  marrying  me  is  entirely  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

She  was  hurt,  terribly  hurt  —  and  alarmed.  What  did 
he  want  of  her !  He  had  pleaded  with  her  to  wait  —  wait. 
...  He  needed  time  to  adjust  things,  straighten  out  every- 
thing. And  instead  of  extricating  himself  from  his  difficul- 
ties he  was  creating  new  ones.  He  was  wading  deeper  and 
deeper  into  mud  and  was  dragging  her  with  him.  .  .  .  The 
detetctives  had  seen  him  come  there.  .  .  .  Every  one  would 
know  it  now.  .  .  . 

Ruth  was  on  the  verge  of  fainting,  but  strength  came  to 
her  with  a  rush  —  and  anger. 

"  You  have  not  considered  me  at  all  in  this,"  she  glared 
at  him.  There  was  despair  in  her  gaze,  disillusionment. 
"  You  have  not  thought  of  me  in  the  least.  Please  let  me 
get  away  from  here.  Let  me  go  home.  I  don't  want  my  life 
shattered,  ruined,  any  more  than  it  has  been  already  — " 

"  But  —  why  can't  you  —  marry  me?  "  Channing's  voice 
was  thick  and  lifeless. 

"  Have  you  consulted  your  sister  about  it  ?  Have  you 
talked  to  Mrs.  Avery  ?  Would  she  care  to  have  me  for  a  sis- 
ter-in-law? "  There  was  something  terribly  pathetic  about 
Ruth  as  she  spoke  the  words  which  brought  her  own  stand- 
ing into  question.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  pronouncing  a 
verdict  against  herself. 

The  blunder,  the  horror  and  hopelessness  of  the  situation 
in  a  flash  came  to  Channing.  He  had  been  mad,  mad! 
What  had  he  done!     And  there  was  no  way  out  of  it.     It 


3o8  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

could  not  be  retrieved,  undone.  Never!  He  gazed  around 
—  at  Ruth,  at  the  room  —  with  eyes  not  unlike  those  of  an 
animal  that  has  reached  the  end  of  a  trail,  with  death  closing 
in  on  it  —  and  a  precipice  and  death  in  front  of  it.  He  left 
the  room  without  a  word. 

Ruth  sat  up  and  wept  until  late.  .  .  .  Steps  in  the  next 
room  woke  her  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Channing  was 
there.  She  called  to  him;  he  did  not  answer.  She  heard 
him  trying  to  open  the  window  to  the  balcony.  It  occurred 
to  her  that  he  might  not  be  in  a  condition  to  be  standing  on 
the  balcony.  He  had  come  in  slightly  intoxicated  on  two  or 
three  occasions  before.  Hastily  she  slipped  into  a  gown  and 
stepped  into  the  next  room.  The  window  leading  to  the  bal- 
cony was  wide  open.  Channing  was  not  there.  In  the  next 
instant  there  was  a  terrific  thud  in  the  courtyard  —  cries,  ex- 
clamations. ...  A  policeman  and  the  elevator  attendant 
found  Ruth  on  the  floor,  unconscious.  .  .  . 

In  the  newspapers  the  following  afternoon  Channing's 
death  was  described  as  an  accident.  "  The  scion  of  the 
famous  Channing  family,"  one  of  the  reports  read,  "  has  for 
some  time  been  in  poor  health.  Craving  rest  and  isolation 
he  took  an  apartment  on  the  top  floor  of  the  beautiful  Avon 
Hotel.  His  apartment  commanded  a  wonderful  view  of  the 
Hudson.  Relatives  of  the  deceased  believe  that  he  stepped 
upon  the  balcony  for  a  breath  of  the  cool  night  air  and  that 
vertigo,  from  which  he  was  known  to  suffer,  overtook  him 
and  he  fell.  As  death  was  instantaneous,  the  exact  facts  in 
the  tragedy  will  probably  never  be  known.  .  .  ."  Of  Ruth 
Conrad  there  was  no  mention. 

Not  only  the  French  family  and  Mrs.  Avery,  but  the  man- 
agement of  the  Avon,  worked  frantically  with  the  captain 
of  the  police  to  have  the  detail  that  Channing  was  living  with 
a  young  woman  at  the  hotel  suppressed.    The  Avon  was  a 


CLIPPED  WINGS  309 

high-class  family  hotel.  It  would  never  do  to  put  the  slight- 
est stain  on  its  respectability.  While  acceding  to  the  relatives 
of  the  dead  man  and  to  the  hotel  management  in  giving  Chan- 
ning's  death  to  the  press  as  an  accident  rather  than  a  suicide, 
the  police  captain  —  Captain  Baer  —  nevertheless  ordered 
Ruth  Conrad  taken  into  custody  and  held  incommunicado  un- 
til he  had  had  time  to  question  her  minutely. 

Mrs.  Avery  v^as  frenzied.  She  blamed  herself  for  the 
tragedy.  It  was  her  craze  for  making  all  sorts  of  experi- 
ments with  the  poor  and  unfortunate,  she  kept  repeating  to 
herself,  that  had  cost  her  brother's  life.  Had  she  not  taken 
Ruth  into  her  house  the  tragedy  would  not  have  occurred. 
And  now  her  own  reputation  was  at  stake.  For  if  the  truth 
about  her  brother's  relation  to  the  girl  came  out  —  if  it  be- 
came known  that  Channing  had  ruined  Ruth  —  the  thought 
was  too  terrible  for  Mrs.  Avery  to  continue  to  the  end.  .  .  . 
No,  it  must  not  come  out.  Ruth  must  be  silenced;  her  father 
must  be  silenced.  They  must  be  satisfied.  Money  would 
do  it.  But  how  ?  Who  could  manage  it,  arrange  it  for  her  ? 
It  must  be  done  at  once  —  quickly.  And  she  could  not  even 
see  the  girl  —  could  not  talk  to  her.  The  police  held  her 
in  custody.    The  police.  .  .  . 

In  Mrs.  Avery's  sphere,  in  her  home,  they  had  always  been 
accustomed  to  look  upon  the  police  as  friends.  Mr.  Avery 
had  often  spoken  of  the  police  gratefully.  In  one  state  the 
police  were  defending  his  property  against  lawlessness  from 
strikers;  in  another  the  police  were  doing  splendid  work  in 
rounding  up  tramps  who  had  been  stealing  and  damaging 
freight,  and  saved  the  railroad  company  many  thousands  of 
dollars  a  month.  The  police  guarded  their  homes,  piloted 
their  automobiles;  they  seemed  anxious  to  be  of  service.  She 
would  take  the  police  into  her  confidence. 

Captain  Baer  seemingly  was  the  sort  of  policeman  one  was 


310  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

bound  to  have  faith  in.  He  was  a  big,  fatherly  man,  deliber- 
ate, apparently  very  thoughtful.  When  he  removed  his 
official  cap,  his  iron-gray  hair,  with  the  bald  spot  on  his 
head,  intensified  the  impression  of  kindliness.  He  looked  like 
an  indulgent  grandfather,  a  home-loving  man.  Mrs.  Avery 
decided  to  trust  herself  to  the  police  captain.  She  told  him 
the  story  of  Ruth  and  her  brother  —  the  whole  truth.  Of 
course  her  brother  had  committed  suicide.  She  had  been  in 
dread  for  weeks,  months  over  her  brother's  entanglements. 
It  was  awful  —  if  she  had  only  had  more  courage  — 
courage.  .  .  . 

With  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks,  she  confided  her 
anxiety  to  the  captain.  She  was  afraid  of  Ruth,  afraid  of  the 
girl's  father.  It  was  out  of  sheer  kindness  that  she  had  taken 
her  out  of  the  institution.  How  could  she  foresee  such  a 
tragedy!  But  suppose  the  girl  now  turned  against  her  — 
suppose  people  —  a  lawyer  —  set  the  girl  against  her?  It 
would  be  awful.  The  world  could  not  be  expected  to  see 
below  the  surface.  It  would  only  know  that  Mrs.  Avery  had 
taken  the  girl  out  of  an  institution  and  that  the  girl  was 
ruined  by  her  brother.  .  .  . 

Captain  Baer  listened  with  a  kindly,  sympathetic  look 
which  went  to  Mrs.  Avery's  heart.  No,  she  had  made  no 
mistake  in  confiding  in  the  police  captain.  She  felt  better 
already.  She  shook  hands  with  him  as  with  a  benefactor. 
In  a  mysterious  whisper  she  told  him  that  she  would  come  to 
see  him  again  at  two  o'clock  and  she  wanted  to  see  him  alone 
—  privately.  .  .  . 

The  excitement,  the  wear  of  the  morning  increased  Mrs. 
Avery's  helplessness.  She  was  weak,  faint,  when  she  reached 
the  office  of  the  police  captain  for  the  second  time.  As  soon 
as  the  door  closed  behind  them  and  she  was  convinced  that 


CLIPPED  WINGS  311 

they  were  alone,  Mrs.  Avery  took  out  a  package  from  her 
hand-bag  and  put  it  into  the  captain's  hand. 

"  There  is  five  thousand  dollars  here,"  she  said.  "  I  mean 
to  do  the  right  thing  by  the  girl  and  her  father.  Take  it, 
give  it  to  her,  but  see  to  it,  please,  that  I  am  spared  all 
humiliation  and  trouble.  God  knows  I  meant  well  by  her." 
She  wept. 

Captain  Baer  put  the  bundle  of  bills  into  the  drawer  of 
his  desk  with  the  manner  of  a  man  who  is  taking  charge  of 
somebody's  property  and  must  see  that  it  is  returned  intact. 
Then  he  spoke  —  just  as  Mrs.  Avery  wanted  him  to  speak. 

He  assured  her  that  she  was  a  very,  very  noble  person,  that 
she  need  not  fear  the  girl  or  her  father.  She  never  wronged 
the  girl.  It  was  Ruth  who  was  in  the  wrong.  These  girls 
always  were.  It  was  a  mistake  to  try  to  take  them  into  one's 
home,  to  try  to  reform  them.  These  girls  never  could  be  re- 
formed. Institutions  did  them  no  good;  nothing  did  them 
any  good.  Five  thousand  dollars  certainly  was  a  generous 
gift  —  it  was  magnificent.  The  girl  might  thank  her  stars 
that  Mrs.  Avery  had  such  a  kind  heart.  As  for  himself.  Cap- 
tain Baer  appreciated  Mrs.  Avery's  lofty  character  and 
would  carry  out  her  instructions  to  the  letter.  She  need  never 
fear  any  unpleasantness.  He  would  attend  to  things  and 
leave  no  loophole  for  anything  like  that. 

Mrs.  Avery  was  greatly  reassured.  She  ordered  her  chauf- 
feur to  drive  her  to  the  French's.  They  had  charge  of  the 
funeral  arrangements.  Her  thoughts  alternated  between  the 
funeral  and  a  trip  to  Palm  Beach.  She  must  have  a  rest, 
must  get  away  from  all  this,  she  thought,  as  she  sobbed 
without  tears.     A  long  rest.  .  .  . 

While  he  was  assuring  Mrs.  Avery  of  his  high  regard  for 


312  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

her  unselfish,  noble  character,  Captain  Baer  was  thinking 
how  he  was  going  to  dispose  of  the  five  thousand  without 
laying  himself  open  to  immediate  suspicion  or  leaving  any 
grounds  for  future  trouble.  ...  He  could  not  deposit  the 
money  in  the  bank,  nor  would  it  do  to  buy  additional  property 
at  once.  A  Citizens'  Committee  had  only  recently  concluded 
an  investigation  of  the  police  department  and  the  bank  ac- 
counts as  well  as  the  property  purchases  of  certain  police 
officials  were  gone  into  minutely. 

As  soon  as  he  closed  the  door  on  the  departing  Mrs.  Avery, 
he  transferred  the  bundle  of  bills  from  the  desk  drawer  to  an 
inside  pocket.  The  disposition  of  the  girl  was  the  immediate 
problem.  Ruth  was  held  at  the  station  without  a  warrant. 
As  far  as  the  official  record  of  the  Channing  "  accident " 
went,  there  was  not  a  mention  of  her.  ...  He  assumed  a 
very  serious,  very  absorbed  air,  and  called  for  Garrity. 

Garrity  was  one  of  Captain  Baer's  "  trusted  "  detectives. 
The  captain  had  "  a  thing  or  two  "  on  Garrity  and  Garrity 
knew  of  a  few  shady  deals  in  which  his  superior  had  figured. 
They  had  nothing  to  fear  from  one  another.  .  .  . 

"  Garrity,"  the  captain  said  with  a  preoccupied  air,  "  this 
Channing  case  is  not  entirely  cleared  up  yet.  I  am  suspi- 
cious of  the  woman.  She  looks  innocent  enough,  but  it  is 
these  innocent  looking  things  that  are  frequently  made  instru- 
ments of  blackmail.  Have  a  talk  with  her  and  report  to  me 
at  four  o'clock." 

When,  after  an  hour  and  a  half  of  grilling  by  the  detective, 
Ruth  had  regained  her  cell,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  hard 
bench  and  screeched  and  bit  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  She 
could  not  stay  still  a  moment.  She  wrung  her  hands,  begged 
mercy  and  wept,  though  there  was  no  one  to  hear  her.  She 
went  from  one  fit  of  hysteria  into  another.  .  .  .  The  law  was 
after  her  again.    The  Law!     It  was  the  curse,  the  doom  of 


CLIPPED  WINGS  313 

their  family.  The  law  had  sent  her  father  to  prison  inno- 
cently, and  thereby  killed  her  mother.  The  law  had  taken 
her  from  her  home  —  branded  her.  .  .  .  And  now  the  law 
was  seeking  to  destroy  her.  Merciful  God !  What  were  they 
not  accusing  her  of!  Money!  They  were  accusing  her  of 
bleeding  Channing  for  money.  She  had  driven  him  to  suicide 
for  money;  killed  him  for  money.  A  bad,  designing  woman, 
they  called  her.  She  was  classed  with  criminals  and  black- 
mailers. 

There  was  a  long  night  ahead  of  her.  What  a  night  I  She 
tossed  from  side  to  side;  she  sat  up;  she  tried  to  walk  the  cell. 
Her  eyes  burned.  Her  head  felt  as  if  nails  had  been  driven 
through  it.  Her  tongue  was  heavy ;  in  her  throat  a  lump  was 
making  speech  difficult.  At  nine  o'clock,  Captain  Baer  sent 
for  her.  He  did  not  scold  her  as  the  man  had  the  previous 
afternoon.  But  he  held  out  no  more  comfort  than  the  de- 
tective had. 

She  did  not  wish  to  confess  to  blackmailing  Channing? 
Very  well,  he  would  let  the  jury  determine  that.  Perhaps 
she  would  rather  tell  the  truth  to  the  court  than  to  him;  it 
was  her  affair.  He  would  order  her  transferred  to  jail  that 
afternoon.  She  would  have  a  stay  of  six  or  eight  months  in 
prison  until  her  case  came  up.  He  did  not  believe  what  she 
was  saying  and  was  deaf  to  her  entreaties. 

"  You  are  all  alike,"  he  said  with  a  sneer.  "  You  carry  on 
after  you  are  in  trouble.  But  why  don't  you  think  before- 
hand ?    Why  don't  you  keep  out  of  trouble  ? 

"  A  girl  like  you,  so  young  and  already  so  bad,  so  bad." 
Captain  Baer  spoke  with  seeming  regret,  and  rose.  Ruth 
was  taken  back  to  her  cell. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  captain  was  closeted  with  Gar- 
rity  once  more. 

"  Get  the  girl  out  of  the  city,"  he  was  saying  to  the  de- 


314  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

tective.  "  We  don't  want  her  here.  We  don't  want  her  to 
annoy  decent  people.  If  she  has  not  been  blackmailing  the 
Channing  family  yet,  I  have  no  doubt  she  will  do  so  as  soon 
as  we  let  her  out.  Get  her  out  of  town  —  get  her  to  San 
Francisco.  Tell  her  if  she  returns  we  will  hold  her  on  a 
charge  of  homicide.  .  .  .  This  will  be  my  policy  in  the  future 
with  all  such  women.  Run  them  out  of  here  and  don't  let 
them  set  foot  in  New  York  again. 

"Here!  "  Captain  Baer  tossed  a  bundle  of  bills  to  the 
detective.  "  There  is  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  here. 
It  was  found  in  the  room  in  one  of  the  girl's  trunks.  Give 
it  back  to  her.  She  can  buy  her  ticket  to  San  Francisco  with 
iV 

Ruth  was  in  a  stupor  from  sleeplessness  and  exhaustion 
when  she  was  ordered  before  Garrity.  The  detective  gave  her 
the  alternative  of  being  sent  to  jail  to  await  trial  or  of  free- 
dom—  and  a  train  to  San  Francisco.  Ruth's  first  question 
was,  could  she  see  her  father  before  leaving.  The  detective 
raged.  No,  she  could  see  no  one,  and  she'd  better  take  his 
offer  quick  or  she  might  never  hear  of  it  again.  The  police 
were  sick  of  dealing  with  wenches  like  her  and  that  was 
why  she  was  given  the  offer  to  clear  out.  But  if  she  began 
to  act  smart  she  would  be  sent  to  jail  forthwith. 

"  Take  it  or  leave  it,"  was  the  final  word. 

She  took  it.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  jail.  They 
had  just  an  hour  until  train  time.  The  detective  took  a 
taxi  and  rushed  her  to  the  ticket  office.  She  procured  pas- 
sage quickly.  On  the  way  to  the  ferry  he  stopped  in  front  of 
a  pawn-shop  and 'bought  her  a  cheap  suitcase.  At  Garrity 's 
suggestion  she  bought  some  bread  and  meat.  The  detective 
waited  on  the  platform  in  front  of  the  window  where  Ruth 
sat  until  the  train  pulled  out.  .  .  . 


CLIPPED  WINGS  315 

Fred  Conrad  turned  white  when  the  man  displayed  his 
police  shield. 

"  Garrity  is  my  name,"  the  detective  introduced  himself 
with  mock  seriousness.  "  Have  you  seen  anything  of  your 
daughter  lately?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  for  ten  days,"  Conrad  replied  slowly. 
He  was  anticipating  trouble  —  more  trouble  —  and  was  pre- 
paring for  it.     "Why  —  has  anything  happened?  " 

"  Oh,  yes;  lots  has  happened,"  the  detective  answered  with 
a  twinkle.  "  And  we  are  looking  for  your  daughter  to  explain 
it." 

Conrad  was  striving  hard  to  retain  his  calm,  to  think.  He 
knew  nothing,  had  heard  nothing.  It  was  agreed  between 
father  and  daughter  that  he  was  never  to  call  on  her  at  the 
Avery  home.  She  was  to  do  all  the  calling  and  she  called  on 
her  father  weekly.  She  had  missed  one  or  two  visits  be- 
cause she  was  busy,  she  had  said.  Ruth  had  not  breathed 
a  word  to  her  father  about  Channing,  about  his  taking  her 
from  the  Avery  home.  She  was  waiting  every  day  for  things 
to  "  settle,"  when  she  would  go  home  to  her  father  for  good. 
Conrad  told  all  he  knew  to  the  detective. 

"  Look  here,"  the  officer  said,  pretending  to  drop  his  mask 
of  playfulness,  "  you  either  are  acting  the  part  of  a  fool  or 
else  you  are  one.  Which  is  it?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  are  not  aware  that  your  daughter  has  been  away  from 
the  Averys'  for  three  months?  " 

Fred's  astonishment  was  genuine. 

"  Well,"  the  detective  proceeded  briskly,  "  she  has  been  in 
with  a  gang,  a  bad  gang.  She  has  become  a  bad  woman. 
We  are  looking  for  her." 

It  was  Conrad's  impulse  to  tell  the  detective  that  he  was 
a  liar.     He  had  seen  his  daughter  ten  days  previously,  had 


3i6  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

talked  to  her  and  he  knew  that  she  was  not  a  bad  woman, 
could  not  be  one.  But  a  man  who  has  been  to  prison  knows 
from  experience  that  it  is  best  not  to  cross  officials  and  de- 
tectives, so  he  held  his  peace.  In  place  of  anger  came  help- 
lessness. Tremblingly  he  sought  to  gather  information  about 
his  daughter  from  the  detective,  but  the  latter  noticed  this 
and  informed  him  that  he  was  there  to  get  information  about 
the  girl,  not  to  give  it.  .  .  .  As  he  was  leaving,  the  detective 
made  a  passing  reference  to  Conrad's  prison  record.  For 
how  long  had  he  been  imprisoned,  and  in  what  connection? 
Oh,  yes;  he  recalled  it  now.     Good-day. 

"  I  guess  the  old  man  will  leave  well  enough  alone,"  Gar- 
rity  reported  back  to  Captain  Baer.  "  He  is  scared  stiff,  and 
he  is  a  meek  sort  of  an  individual  anyway." 

"  Yes,  one  has  to  be  very  careful  with  an  ex-convict. 
There  is  not  one  of  them  that  is  any  good." 

Captain  Baer  did  not  look  at  Garrity  as  he  spoke,  but  the 
detective  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  his  chief.  "  You  are  pro- 
tecting some  one,"  Garrity  thought.  "  And  there  is  a  big 
piece  of  change  in  it  for  you  all  right."  And  he  wondered 
how  soon  his  day  would  come  for  a  "  big  piece  of  change." 
He  had  only  lopped  off  a  trifle  of  one  hundred  dollars  from 
the  three  hundred  and  fifty  the  captain  had  given  him  for 
Ruth. 

Conrad  had  sought  out  the  Avery  home,  but  no  one  an- 
swered. He  went  to  the  Home  of  Redemption,  but  Sister 
Agatha,  after  venting  her  fury  on  him,  could  give  him  no 
more  information  than  the  police  had.  The  police  had  told 
her  the  same  story:  Ruth  had  got  in  with  a  bad  gang;  she 
had  become  a  bad  woman.     She  had  run  away. 

Old  Gottfried  sought  to  uphold  his  son's  hands.  His  faith 
in  his  granddaughter  was  unshaken.  ...  It  was  a  mistake 
to  let  her  go  to  the  millionaire  family.     He  should  have  put 


CLIPPED  WINGS  317 

his  foot  down  then.  .  .  .  Ruth  should  have  served  out  her 
sentence  and  come  home;  she  should  have  had  nothing  to  do 
with  those  rich  philanthropists.  Their  philanthropy  was  poi- 
son. Fred  must  find  Mrs.  Avery.  He  must  get  at  her. 
She  alone  knew  where  Ruth  was  —  she  alone  could  enlighten 
them  about  the  girl's  whereabouts  —  and  she  should  be  made 
to  tell.     Robert  agreed  with  his  grandfather. 

Meantime,  Fred  turned  back  to  the  only  source  available 
for  information  about  his  daughter  —  the  police.  He  de- 
spised the  police.  In  Detective  Garrity  he  recognized  the  type 
he  had  once  run  up  against,  the  human  brute  who  could  be 
hired  for  money  to  do  anything,  from  scabbing  and  slugging 
strikers  to  manufacturing  evidence  and  railroading  men  to 
jail. 

"  I  guess  we  have  her  spotted,"  Garrity  informed  Conrad 
when  the  latter  called.  "  She  beat  it  to  Chicago.  We  are  not 
going  after  her  —  case  not  serious  enough.  Trust  her,  how- 
ever, to  get  into  trouble.  Sooner  or  later  the  law  will  have 
its  hand  on  her." 

Fred  Conrad  was  crushed.  "  Chicago  —  what  could  she 
be  doing  there?"  he  mumbled  to  himself.  But  the  detec- 
tive heard  him. 

"  What  could  she  be  doing  there?  "  he  sneered.  "  Leave 
it  to  her;  she'll  find  something  to  do.  There  are  plenty  of 
streets  to  walk  there.  ..." 

Conrad  turned  and  slipped  through  the  door  noiselessly. 
But  the  detective  called  him  back. 

"If  you  are  so  anxious  to  find  your  little  angel,"  he  said 
with  a  malicious  grin,  "  why  don't  you  go  to  Chicago?  You 
won't  have  much  trouble  finding  her.  The  police  there  keep 
a  record  of  such  characters.  They  generally  have  such 
women  registered.  You  might  be  able  to  get  on  her  trail  that 
way." 


3i8  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

When  Conrad  shut  the  door  behind  him,  the  detective  snick- 
ered. "  Just  like  him,"  he  mused,  "  to  start  on  a  fool's  errand 
for  Chicago."  And  he  snickered  again.  "  But  the  captain 
will  be  pleased  all  right." 

At  the  very  moment  Fred  Conrad  was  dragging  himself 
down  the  steps  of  the  police  station,  Ruth  stepped  into  the 
railway  waiting-room  at  San  Francisco.  There  were  signs 
on  the  walls  cautioning  girls  and  calling  attention  to  the 
Young  Women's  Christian  Association.  Ruth  walked  past 
these  signs  and  past  the  woman  who  stood  there  apparently 
looking  for  strangers  to  whom  she  might  be  of  service.  The 
signs  and  the  woman  somehow  reminded  her  of  the  Home  of 
Redemption  and  of  Sister  Agatha,  with  her  strict  and  mo- 
notonous Episcopalian  services.  She  passed  a  policeman 
quickly,  without  looking  at  him.  .  .  .  She  dreaded  the  police. 
She  checked  her  suitcase,  in  which  lay  a  few  papers  and 
magazines  she  had  bought  on  the  train  to  hide  its  bareness, 
and  went  out  into  the  street. 

She  studied  the  cars  for  some  minutes,  and  entered  one 
whose  sign  appealed  to  her.  The  car  passed  through  a  large 
middle-class  district.  The  houses,  all  two  and  three-story 
frame  buildings,  had  many  "  To  Let  "  signs.  She  made  a 
mental  notation  of  one  of  the  cross  streets,  went  with  the  car 
to  the  end  of  the  line,  and  came  back  with  it.  When  she 
reached  the  street  on  her  return  trip  she  got  off.  In  front  of 
one  of  the  houses  a  woman  was  sitting  with  a  child  on  her  lap. 
Yes,  she  had  a  room  to  rent.  Ruth  looked  at  the  woman  and 
at  the  house.  She  wanted  to  make  sure  that  she  was  among 
decent  working  people.  She  was,  and  she  paid  the  two  dol- 
lars required,  got  the  key  and  went  back  to  the  station  to  get 
her  valise. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES 

NOTHING  was  the  same  after  Ruth's  disappearance. 
The  city  was  not  the  same;  the  streets  were  not  the 
same;  the  people  were  not  the  same.  Fred  Conrad  entertained 
not  the  slightest  thought  that  his  daughter  had  become  a 
criminal  —  he  knew  her  too  well  for  that  —  still  he  had  to 
overcome  a  certain  dread  every  time  he  unfolded  a  newspaper 
lest  he  read  of  Ruth's  arrest  —  or  suicide.  While  pining  for 
a  clue  to  his  daughter's  whereabouts,  he  was  thankful  never- 
theless every  time  he  looked  through  a  newspaper  and  failed 
to  find  her  name  in  it.  The  passing  of  the  postman  set  his 
heart  beating  faster.  He  was  waiting,  hoping  for  a  letter 
from  Ruth.  He  felt  that  she  would  find  a  way  to  write  to 
him,  to  communicate  with  him,  no  matter  what  difficulties 
she  was  in.  She  was  self-possessed  like  her  mother  and  she 
loved  him,  loved  her  brother  and  her  grandfather;  she  would 
write.  ...  So  he  would  stand  in  the  hallway  and  watch  the 
postman  distribute  his  mail,  and  listen  breathlessly  for  the 
calling  of  his  name. 

But  no  letter  came.  He  sought  once  more  to  gain  access 
to  the  Avery  home,  but  no  one  answered  his  ring.  He  tried 
again,  only  to  find  the  windows  boarded  up.  While  he  was 
gazing  mutely  at  the  walls  a  servant  came  out  from  the 
basement  of  the  adjoining  house.  Fred  asked  her  about 
the  Averys.     They  had  gone  to  Europe. 

The  possibility  that  Ruth  had  fallen  victim  to  a  gang,  in 

319 


320  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

the  absence  of  any  clue  to  the  girl,  was  not  to  be  dismissed 
lightly.  Evidence  of  the  gang  and  its  operations  was  to 
be  found  at  every  turn.  Whole  sections  of  New  York  were 
groaning  under  gang  rule.  The  coal  man,  Jacob  Miller,  an 
old  school  friend  of  Conrad's,  had  lost  six  horses  in  as  many 
months.  Gangsters  had  poisoned  them.  The  coal  man  knew 
the  gangsters,  or  at  least  their  go-betweens,  but  when  asked 
why  he  did  not  give  their  names  to  the  police,  he  laughed  a 
wan  laugh.  To  tell  the  police  on  the  gang  would  mean  to 
sign  his  death  sentence.  He  kept  silent  and  was  quietly  mak- 
ing plans  to  slip  out  into  the  country. 

But  the  heaviest  toll  the  gang  levied  on  the  city  was  not  in 
cash  but  in  human  bodies,  bodies  of  young  girls  it  could  ex- 
ploit. Fred  was  no  stranger  to  this  problem,  which  the 
newspapers  were  airing  in  their  columns  at  frequent  intervals. 
He  had  known  several  men,  laborers,  each  of  whom  had  re- 
ported a  daughter  to  the  police  as  "  missing."  These  girls 
were  never  found  and  their  parents  were  never  the  same  after- 
ward. The  wife  of  one  of  the  men  died  shortly  after  her 
daughter's  disappearance.  The  mother  of  another  girl  was 
taken  to  an  insane  asylum.  She  was  released  after  six 
months  and  went  about  her  business  apparently  as  usual,  but 
she  never  looked  people  in  the  eyes  again. 

There  were  blocks  in  New  York,  entire  streets  in  fact, 
which  had  an  unsavory  reputation.  The  saloons  in  these 
districts  figured  frequently  in  the  newspapers  in  connection 
with  murders;  the  hotels  and  rooming  houses,  in  connection 
with  suicides.  These  streets  were  known  as  the  city's  under- 
world. A  number  of  trade  unions  had  their  headquarters 
scattered  through  these  districts,  and  in  his  early  days  as  a 
labor  leader  Fred  Conrad  had  often  passed  through  them  on 
his  way  to  meetings.  But  he  seldom  gave  these  places  a 
thought.     Now  visions  of  them  haunted  him  day  and  night. 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  321 

It  was  in  places  such  as  these  that  his  daughter,  his  Ruth, 
might  perhaps  be  found.  ...  He  did  not  believe  the  de- 
tective, he  did  not  believe  his  daughter  to  be  guilty,  to  be  in 
the  wrong.  But  then  it  was  known  that  many  of  the  women 
in  these  places  were  there  under  duress  —  the  gang  held  them 
there.     Such  too  might  be  the  fate  of  his  daughter.  .  .  . 

He  strolled  through  these  streets  frequently  now,  search- 
ing them  with  his  gaze.  And  the  streets  were  revealing  them- 
selves to  him.  He  saw  them  as  he  had  never  seen  them 
before.  He  watched  the  saloons  in  the  district,  the  pool- 
rooms, cigar  stores.  They  always  became  alive  at  nightfall. 
There  was  always  a  profusion  of  young  men  in  front  of  them, 
sleek,  dapper  young  fellows,  each  of  whom  looked  as  if  he 
had  just  left  the  barber's  chair,  where  his  face  had  been 
swathed  in  hot  towels  for  a  long  time.  There  was  a  signif- 
icance in  everything  these  men  said  or  did.  Their  faces, 
hands,  bearing,  showed  no  trace  of  work.  In  spite  of  their 
leisurely  appearance,  however,  and  in  spite  of  their  being 
well  dressed,  they  did  not  look  as  if  they  came  from  good 
families.  There  was  a  lack  of  breeding,  a  coarseness  about 
them,  which  was  repellent. 

One  individual,  especially,  arrested  Fred  Conrad's  atten- 
tion, and  he  gave  him  a  prolonged  and  searching  gaze.  In- 
stantly the  young  man  thus  scrutinized  became  apprehensive. 
He  followed  Conrad  down  the  street  for  nearly  three  blocks, 
and  examined  him  in  passing.  He  then  turned  back  and 
upon  coming  face  to  face  with  Conrad,  gave  him  a  piercing 
look.  Fred  watched  the  maneuvers  of  the  man,  noticed  his 
evident  suspicion,  fear,  and  guessed  the  cause  of  it.  It  was 
into  the  eyes  of  a  gangster  that  he  had  looked,  and  the 
gangster  had  become  apprehensive.  So  that  was  what  they 
were  like,  these  gangsters!  And  it  was  such  a  man  that 
had  robbed  him  of  his  daughter,  that  had  made  Ruth  his 


322  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

chattel,  his  slave.  .  .  .  He  began  to  doubt  whether  Ruth 
would  be  able  to  write  to  him  soon,  after  all.  A  man  of  the 
type  he  had  seen,  with  his  suspicions  working  overtime,  might 
make  it  difficult  for  the  girl  to  scrawl  a  line  to  her  father 
for  a  long  time. 

Conrad  worked  irregularly.  Robert  was  earning  his  liveli- 
hood in  the  packing  department  of  a  wholesale  woolen  house. 
And  Fred  did  not  need  much.  He  even  had  a  hundred  dol- 
lars in  the  bank.  He  had  saved  it  for  Ruth.  It  was  to  be 
used  on  her  homecoming.  He  was  to  get  her  clothes  with 
it,  nice  clothes,  for  she  was  a  young  woman  now.  .  .  . 

His  sense  of  privacy,  which  had  been  very  keen  in  the  first 
few  weeks,  was  becoming  less  poignant.  Conrad  ceased  to 
hide  his  misfortune  from  people.  He  talked  about  it,  guard- 
edly of  course,  but  still  he  talked,  seeking  information,  advice, 
which  might  be  of  value  to  him  in  tracing  his  daughter. 
There  was  a  woman  in  the  neighborhood  whose  husband  Con- 
rad had  known.  The  woman  had  "  lost  "  a  daughter  the  year 
before,  and  Conrad  sought  her  out  and  talked  with  her. 
The  woman  gave  him  the  names  of  societies  to  whom  she  had 
appealed  to  find  her  girl.  But  she  warned  him  beforehand 
not  to  put  too  much  trust  in  such  societies.  They  made  much 
fuss  but  accomplished  little.  .  .  . 

It  was  while  going  from  one  of  these  societies  to  the  other 
to  enlist  their  help  in  search  of  his  daughter,  that  Conrad 
collapsed  one  day.  The  bored  expression  with  which  the 
attendant  at  one  place  he  called,  a  thin,  long  man  with  a 
choleric  look,  took  his  story  down,  was  the  last  straw.  His 
nerves,  which  he  was  holding  in  control  with  great  effort,  gave 
way.  The  world  seemed  in  conspiracy  against  him.  The 
police,  detectives,  the  Garritys,  were  brutal,  murderous.  And 
the  philanthropic  societies,  which  were  supposed  to  aid  and 
comfort  the  poor,  were  a  travesty.    They  had  no  heart.  .  .  . 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  323 

He  dragged  himself  home  with  difficulty,  and  once  he  gained 
his  bed  he  could  not  leave  it.  He  became  limp  bodily  and 
mentally.  Robert  and  his  grandfather  took  turns  staying  up 
and  tending  to  him.  It  was  two  weeks  before  Fred  made 
any  improvement.  When  he  was  convalescing  strange  yearn- 
ings began  to  surge  through  him.  His  dream  of  California, 
of  a  log  cabin  there,  became  poignant  once  more.  If  he  could 
only  find  Ruth  he  would  not  stay  another  day  in  New  York, 
he  would  take  her  and  they  would  start  for  the  West  at 
once.  He  had  a  little  money  saved.  ...  He  confided  his 
yearnings  to  Robert  and  to  Gottfried.  Yes,  if  he  only  could 
find  Ruth,  everything  would  be  well  again.  He  felt  his 
strength  coming  back  to  him.  He  felt  capable  of  striking  out 
once  more. 

The  idea  of  going  to  Chicago  occurred  to  him.  Of  course 
he  did  not  believe  Garrity.  The  detective  probably  had  not 
the  slightest  evidence  that  the  girl  was  there.  But  then  Ruth 
might  be  there  all  the  same.  The  newspapers  often  told  of 
New  York  gangsters  taking  their  girl  victims  to  other  cities; 
it  was  safer.  Ruth  might  be  in  Chicago.  And  at  any  rate 
this  sitting  with  folded  hands  would  not  get  him  anywhere. 
His  brooding  was  only  undermining  his  health.  He  would 
go  to  Chicago.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  listened  to  his  son  and  approved  of  his  plan. 
The  journey  to  Chicago  might  not  do  Ruth  any  good,  but  it 
would  surely  do  his  son  good.  Fred  was  in  need  of  a  change, 
some  change,  if  he  was  not  to  give  way  under  the  strain. 
So  Gottfried  nodded  approval  to  his  son's  proposals. 

As  he  lay  in  bed  motionless  Fred  felt  himself  equal  to  the 
task  of  making  a  trip  to  Chicago  for  the  purpose  of  finding 
his  daughter  there.  But  when  he  was  on  his  feet  again  his 
enthusiasm  flagged.  However,  he  proceeded  with  his  prepa- 
rations for  the  journey;  to  stay  home  idle  was  maddening. 


324  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Gottfried  was  always  on  hand  with  help  and  suggestions. 
He  went  over  every  detail  of  the  proposed  journey  with  his 
son,  the  plan  which  Fred  was  to  follow  in  Chicago  in  search 
for  Ruth.  .  .  . 

The  disappearance  of  his  granddaughter  had  affected  Gott- 
fried no  less  deeply  than  it  had  his  son.  From  the  first  Gott- 
fried made  up  his  mind  that  the  girl  was  innocent.  What- 
ever might  happen  to  her  he  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt 
his  granddaughter's  mental  purity.  The  conviction  of  her 
innocence  along  with  the  fact  that  the  girl  had  character  kept 
the  hope  of  Ruth's  returning  to  them  ever  high.  Ruth  was 
not  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  dragged  down  easily.  She  would 
fight  —  fight  her  way  out.     She  would  come  back.  .  .  . 

The  evening  before  Fred  was  to  start  for  Chicago,  Gott- 
fried left  the  store  in  charge  of  his  grandson  —  Robert  was 
quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  it  —  in  order  to  be  alone  with 
his  son.  Robert  would  stay  with  his  father  all  night  and 
would  have  most  of  the  next  day  with  him.  There  were 
things  that  he  wanted  to  say  to  Fred,  Gottfried  tried  to  make 
himself  believe.  In  reality,  what  he  wanted  w^as  to  be  near 
his  son,  to  see  as  much  of  Fred  as  possible  —  on  this  last 
evening.  He  was  telling  himself  that  it  was  only  a  tem- 
porary parting.  .  .  .  Fred  would  be  back  soon  —  he  hoped 
very  soon  —  and  perhaps  with  Ruth.  .  .  .  Nevertheless  he 
could  not  free  himself  from  a  melancholy  feeling.  .  .  .  Some- 
where a  thought  was  insistently  recurring  that  it  was  a  seri- 
ous parting.  ...  In  the  morning,  the  few  things  that  Fred 
had  in  his  flat  would  be  moved  to  the  rear  of  Gottfried's 
store.  .  .  .  The  little  home  in  which  he  had  expected  to  re- 
ceive Ruth  would  be  broken  up.  .  .  . 

Father  and  son  talked  in  snatches  as  they  sat  facing  each 
other  across  the  table.  There  was  not  much  to  be  said  — 
everything  had  been  settled,  arranged.     Besides,  Gottfried 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  325 

was  finding  speech  difficult,  annoying.  His  thoughts,  too, 
defied  him.  .  .  .  They  persisted  in  running  in  a  groove  which 
he  disliked.  He  had  never  been  at  the  mercy  of  his  thoughts 
so  much  as  he  was  that  evening.  He  gazed  at  Fred's  drawn 
features  and  discovered  that  he  had  never  seen  him  look  so 
bad.  He  was  but  a  shadow  of  his  former  self.  Why,  his 
hair  was  completely  gray,  and  he  was  only  forty-one.  Other 
men  at  his  age  were  in  the  prime  of  life.  ...  A  sense  of 
horror,  of  deep,  tragic  failure  took  hold  of  Gottfried  and 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot.  What  a  terrible  fate  to  have 
brought  a  son  into  the  world  to!  And  he,  Gottfried,  was  re- 
sponsible, largely,  entirely,  for  his  son's  fate,  for  Fred's 
seared  face,  for  the  tragic  lines  about  his  mouth,  for  the  ex- 
pression of  unutterable  pain  in  his  tired  eyes. 

A  fear  seized  Gottfried,  a  fear  that  his  son's  journey  to 
Chicago  would  be  futile,  would  end  badly.  Fred  was  a 
mental  and  physical  wreck.  He  should  not  be  entrusted  with 
such  a  task.  There  might  be  illness,  an  accident,  death.  He 
was  on  the  verge  of  telling  Fred  to  call  off  the  trip  to  Chi- 
cago, but  his  throat  was  thick.  .  .  .  His  eyes  were  blurred. 
.  .  .  Then  something  very  strange  happened.  .  .  . 

Fred's  face  became  more  and  more  like  his  mother's  —  in 
her  last  years.  Gottfried  was  astonished  at  the  resemblance. 
Never  had  he  seen  his  dead  wife  so  vividly.  .  .  .  Why,  actu- 
ally, Anna  was  sitting  in  the  chair  there,  opposite  him,  sit- 
ting in  Fred's  place.  .  .  .  She  was  looking  at  him  as  always, 
perplexed,  with  big,  submissive  eyes  —  pained  eyes.  .  .  . 
But  there  was  more  than  pain  in  those  eyes  now.  Reproach 
was  there.  .  .  .  She  was  speaking  to  him  slowly,  in  a  scarcely 
audible  whisper  intended  seemingly  for  his  ears  only.  He 
was  sure  no  one  else  could  hear  her.  .  .  .  There  was  an  in- 
describable pathos  in  her  voice,  the  fathomless  grief  that 
goes  with  a  terrible,  an  irretrievable  loss.  .  .  . 


326  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"What  have  you  done  to  our  boy?"  she  was  saying. 
"  Why  have  you  forced  all  this  pain  and  agony  on  him  ? 
Look  what  you  have  made  of  him.  He  is  an  old  man  now  — 
you  have  made  an  old  man  of  him.  Look  at  his  gray  hair  — 
Our  Freddy  gray-haired.  Why  could  you  not  let  him  live 
his  own  life,  live  in  peace,  like  other  people?  Why  did  you 
twist  his  life  to  suit  a  whim  of  yours?  Why  have  you 
angered  him  for  so  many  years,  forced  an  unnatural  silence 
upon  him,  out  of  pride,  sheer  vanity?  Why  didn't  you  come 
to  him  with  your  advice  and  experience  —  perhaps  if  you 
had  stood  by  him,  had  been  closer  to  him  —  as  a  father  should 
be  —  he  would  have  been  spared  all  his  trials.  .  .  .  Our  boy, 
our  Freddy  — " 

Gottfried,  holding  his  face  in  his  hands,  was  swaying  in  his 
chair.  .  .  .  Fred  found  business  in  the  next  room  for  some 
little  time.  .  .  . 

Summer  was  drawing  to  a  close.  It  was  six  months  since 
Fred  had  left  for  Chicago  in  search  of  Ruth.  He  had  written 
at  first,  though  his  letters  were  far  from  cheerful.  He  was 
not  getting  on  with  the  search  for  his  daughter.  He  feared 
it  was  a  hopeless  undertaking ;  unless  Ruth  took  the  initiative 
and  wrote  to  them  first,  the  task  of  finding  her  might  never 
be  achieved.  ...  He  was  losing  heart.  .  .  .  Then  his  let- 
ters ceased.  Robert  wrote  to  his  father,  begged  him  frantic- 
ally to  write,  to  keep  them  informed  of  his  plans  and  where- 
abouts. The  letters  came  back;  Fred  was  no  longer  at  the 
old  address.     They  had  no  other  way  of  reaching  him. 

His  father's  silence,  added  to  the  disappearance  of  his 
sister,  had  a  peculiar  effect  upon  Robert.  It  aged  him  physic- 
ally and  matured  him  mentally.  His  features  were  growing 
staid  and  manly  and  his  mind  was  growing  serious,  almost 
too  sober  for  one  of  his  age.     He  was  at  his  grandfather's 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  327 

heel  all  the  time,  asking  questions,  seeking  the  old  man's 
views  —  for  Gottfried's  views  somehow  always  proved  to  be 
correct,  Robert  had  learned  from  experience.  His  grand- 
father inspired  not  only  confidence,  but  respect.  He  was  re- 
sourceful, and  was  never  at  a  loss  for  the  proper  word  or  deed. 

In  a  measure,  as  Robert  was  inviting  age,  his  grandfather 
was  shutting  it  out.  In  the  past  Gottfried  had  never  paid 
attention  to  his  physical  well-being  and  comfort.  The  ques- 
tion of  illness  and  of  death  never  worried  him.  If  death 
came,  let  it  come.  It  was  not  a  thing  one  could  avoid,  so 
why  think  or  worry  about  it.  It  was  different  now.  He 
felt  that  just  now  he  must  have  his  health.  There  were  a 
number  of  things  he  wanted  to  see  through.  ...  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  think  of  Ruth  as  lost  to  them.  She 
would  turn  up  and  would  have  need  of  him,  for  Fred  was 
weak  and  helpless.  It  was  up  to  him,  Gottfried,  to  take 
up  the  task  which  his  son  was  unable  to  perform.  He 
must  put  some  sort  of  a  foundation  under  Robert's  feet. 
Thus  far  the  boy  had  been  drifting.  Robert  was  working  for 
nine  dollars  a  week  as  a  packer  in  a  wholesale  house.  He 
had  outgrown  his  job  long  ago  and  was  hanging  on  to  it  solely 
because  he  knew  of  nothing  else  he  could  do.  He  could  not 
hang  on  to  it  much  longer,  though.  Soon  he  would  be  dis- 
missed and  a  younger  boy  would  be  taken  in  his  place. 

But  while  Robert  was  a  problem  he  was  also  a  joy  to  the 
old  man.  The  sight  of  his  grandson  growing  into  manhood 
thrilled  and  delighted  Gottfried.  Robert  was  more  than  a 
grandson  to  him.  He  was  his  hope,  the  last  hope  for  the 
House  of  Conrad,  the  spark  from  which  a  flame  might  be 
kindled  —  and  the  dream  of  his  life  yet  be  realized.  .  .  . 

Often  wlien  Gottfried  gazed  at  his  grandson  an  incident 
of  his  Wanderjahre  in  Germany  would  come  to  his  mind. 
Once  as  a  boy  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings  from  city  to 


328  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

city  evening  overtook  him  on  the  road.  He  decided  to  build 
a  fire  and  spend  the  night  under  the  open  sky.  He  had  had 
only  a  few  matches  and  he  had  used  the  last  one.  But  the 
fire  was  not  successful.  It  was  dying,  in  spite  of  all  his 
nursing.  It  was  a  gloomy  prospect.  Then  just  as  it  was 
about  to  flicker  out,  a  wind  came  up,  a  dry  leaf  was  blown  up 
from  somewhere.  The  flame  was  fanned  to  life  again,  fanned 
into  a  blaze.  .  .  . 

He  associated  his  grandson  with  the  memory  of  that  inci- 
dent. The  dying  dream  of  his  youth  —  the  establishment  of 
a  "  House  of  Conrad  "  in  America  —  might  yet  be  fanned  to 
life  again  by  his  grandson,  by  Robert.  It  was  this  hope 
which  refused  to  be  downed,  that  constantly  tuned  up  his 
vitality  and  enabled  Gottfried  to  defy  the  infirmities  of  age 
which  would  have  sent  another  man,  as  strong  as  he  physically 
but  mentally  less  fortified,  to  bed.  He  still  had  a  mission  in 
life;  he  still  clung  to  a  dream.  .  .  . 

In  his  efforts  to  get  nearer  to  his  grandson,  Gottfried  now 
closed  the  store  Sundays,  and  he  and  Robert  would  go  out  for 
a  whole  day  to  the  park,  seldom  returning  before  nightfall. 
Gottfried  had  no  qualms  about  closing  the  store  for  the  entire 
day.  The  loss  was  trifling.  The  character  of  the  neighbor- 
hood had  greatly  changed  with  the  years,  and  the  character 
of  his  patronage  changed  with  it.  One  by  one  the  old  crowd 
had  drifted  away.  Most  of  his  one-time  comrades,  the  early 
Lassalleans,  were  dead,  and  the  few  socialist  pioneers  that 
were  living  had  left  the  district.  They  now  stayed  with  their 
children,  who  lived  either  uptown  or  in  the  suburbs.  Little 
Germany  was  no  longer  true  to  its  name.  It  was  swarming 
with  newer  immigrants,  Jews  and  Slavs.  Gottfried  sold  few 
German  papers  now  and  still  fewer  socialist  papers  and 
pamphlets.  His  trade  in  cigars  had  fallen  off.  There  was 
an  up-to-date  cigar  store  on  the  corner  and  the  newer  crowd 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  329 

went  there  for  their  cigars.  They  knew  not  Conrad  and  had 
not  the  sentiment  for  his  place  that  the  old-timers  had. 

These  Sunday  outings  opened  Gottfried's  eyes  to  some- 
thing which  he  had  not  hitherto  observed,  or  rather  had  paid 
no  attention  to.  It  was  the  success  and  prosperity  which  the 
children  of  his  fellow  immigrants  had  achieved  in  America. 
At  every  turn  he  ran  into  the  German  name  of  a  doctor,  a 
lawyer,  a  large  business  establishment,  a  manufactory.  Many 
of  the  names  were  of  his  former  friends  and  acquaintances. 
The  children  of  these  friends  of  his  had  risen  high  in  the 
world.  He  had  known  some  of  these  children  very  well,  for 
he  and  their  fathers  had  lived  and  worked  side  by  side.  He 
and  their  parents  had  belonged  to  the  same  societies,  to  the 
socialist  party.  .  .  . 

Yes,  it  was  remarkable  how  few  sons  of  the  old  socialist 
pioneers  were  actually  in  the  movement  to-day  —  socialists. 
The  movement  appealed  to  them  no  more  than  it  had  to  his 
son.  But  whereas  he  had  carried  on  a  bitter  feud  with  his 
Fred  for  years  over  it,  these  men  had  allowed  their  children 
to  go  their  way  unhampered.  .  .  .  And  the  result.  .  .  .  The 
brass  plates  announcing  their  professions,  businesses;  the 
automobiles  in  front  of  their  homes,  spoke  eloquently  of  suc- 
cess, of  achievement,  of  happiness,  while  his  Fred.  .  .  . 
Where  was  Fred  ?  Gottfried  had  no  regrets  for  himself.  .  .  . 
He  could  not  keep  his  ideal  like  an  expensive  ornament  to 
be  worn  only  on  rare  occasions.  He  had  to  live  it,  to  make 
sacrifices  for  it.  But  —  why  had  he  interfered  with  his  son  ? 
He  should  have  let  the  boy  go  his  way.  He  should  have 
known  better.  Children  seldom  carried  on  the  work  of  their 
parents.     It  was  the  way  —  the  irony  —  of  life.  .  .  . 

He  would  not  make  the  same  mistake  with  his  grandson, 
however.  He  would  not  try  to  impose  his  ideas  upon  Robert. 
It  was  not  a  one-man  job,  this  reforming  of  society,  nor  was 


330  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

it  a  job  for  one  generation,  for  one  age.  One  man  can 
contribute  a  little  toward  the  improvement  of  mankind;  a 
generation  may  bring  the  day  of  universal  justice  nearer. 
But  in  the  main,  Conrad  brooded,  the  task  of  regenerating  the 
world  would  be  accomplished  not  by  the  self-sacrificing 
altruism  of  a  few  idealists,  but  by  a  quickened  consciousness 
of  the  whole  of  mankind.  What  he  now  hoped  for  Robert 
was  to  see  the  boy  grow  up  into  an  honest,  earnest  man,  doing 
his  share  of  the  world's  work,  and  resting  content  with  that. 
Successful  martyrdom,  the  kind  which  is  rewarded  by'  im- 
mortality, is  a  sacred  calling  to  which  one  has  to  be 
born.  ... 

Robert  too  was  thinking  of  the  future.  His  grandfather's 
restless  energy  was  prodding  him  on.  Ruth's  disappearance 
and  his  father's  silence  caused  him  to  shelve  his  plans  for  the 
time  being.  Nevertheless  the  plans  were  there,  they  were 
brewing  within  him.  A  persistent  characteristic  of  Robert's 
plans  was  that  they  were  leaving  New  York  out  of  their  cal- 
culations. He  was  thinking  of  himself  as  doing  things,  as 
achieving,  but  the  battle-ground  of  his  achievements  was  not 
a  New  York  street,  but  the  open  country.  ...  He  was  re- 
calling his  father's  letter  from  prison,  Fred's  dream  of  a  log 
cabin  hidden  by  pine-trees  in  California.  He  often  fell 
asleep  v/ith  the  vision  of  the  pine-trees,  of  the  cabin. 

He  was  out  of  tune  with  New  York.  It  was  irritating 
him.  He  was  beginning  to  hate  it.  The  city  had  taken  his 
sister  from  him.  The  loathsome  side  of  New  York  revealed 
itself  to  him  one  evening  and  made  him  sick  with  disgust. 

He  was  walking  along  Third  Avenue  when  a  familiar 
voice  called  his  name.  It  was  Frank  Ryland,  a  schoolmate 
of  his  and  a  former  neighbor.  Robert  recalled  that  he  had 
missed  Frank  for  more  than  a  year.  He  surveyed  him  and 
was  surprised  at  the  prosperity  the  boy  showed.     Ryland's 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  331 

parents  he  knew  to  be  poor  people.  They  chatted  for  some 
moments,  Frank  dodging  Robert's  direct  questions  as  to  where 
he  was  working  and  what  he  was  doing.  As  they  talked, 
Ryland's  eyes  were  never  still  an  instant.  He  seemed  to  be 
watching  some  one,  somewhere,  everywhere.  Several  girls 
passed.  Their  showy  clothes,  painted  faces  and  lingering 
glances  proclaimed  their  profession.  They  were  underworld 
characters,  and  as  they  passed  Ryland  they  greeted  him  with 
smiling,  significant  eyes.  The  boy  replied  in  the  same  man- 
ner. The  truth  about  Frank  Ryland's  occupation  flashed 
upon  Robert.  He  had  heard  of  other  boys  who  were  living 
off  girls,  off  women.  A  horror  ran  through  him.  He  was 
too  amazed  for  speech  and  started  to  leave.  But  Ryland 
hung  on  to  him. 

"  Looking  for  excitement?  "  he  asked  with  a  sly  wink. 

Robert  said  something  about  being  on  the  way  home,  and 
Ryland  was  ready  with  the  next  question. 

"  Still  working  in  that  woolen  place?  " 

"  Still  there,"  Robert  answered,  glad  to  change  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  What  are  you  pulling  down  there  —  eight  plunks  a 
week?  '^    Frank  Ryland's  voice  was  one  of  contempt. 

"  About  that,"  Robert  answered. 

"  Why,  don't  you  chuck  that  concern,  Bob,  and  come  with 
me?"  Ryland's  tone  was  confidential,  almost  humane,  as 
if  he  were  doing  the  boy  a  real  favor.  "I'll  fix  you  up  — 
right." 

Robert  was  too  embarrassed  to  speak.  He  made  another 
move  to  go,  but  Ryland  came  closer. 

"  Say,"  he  whispered,  "  chuck  that  job  of  yours  and  come 
with  me.  You'll  never  regret  it.  I'll  introduce  you  to  a  girl 
—  a  peach.  She'll  do  anything  for  you.  You'll  never  need 
to  look  at  a  job  again." 


332  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"  I'm  much  obliged,  Frank,"  Robert  replied  and  abruptly 
left  him.     He  walked  fast  but  Ryland  followed  him, 

"  Too  good  for  it,  eh?  "  he  was  sneering  at  Robert's  shoul- 
der. "  You  —  Beat  it  as  fast  as  you  can  or  I'll  have  one 
of  the  fellows  from  over  there,"  he  gave  a  quick  glance  in 
the  direction  of  several  young  men  who  were  standing  in  front 
of  a  saloon,  "  cave  in  your  face  for  you.     Beat  it,  you  — " 

Robert  never  related  this  incident  to  his  grandfather.  He 
was  ashamed.  It  was  too  humiliating.  He  hated  the  city, 
hated  it  from  the  depth  of  his  soul. 

In  the  daytime  Gottfried's  trade  was  mostly  with  children. 
He  had  taken  in  a  small  stock  of  candies  and  school  supplies 
to  make  up  for  the  loss  of  trade  in  German  newspapers  and 
cigars.  In  the  evenings,  however,  his  place  would  occasion- 
ally regain  its  one-time  character  and  atmosphere.  There 
were  about  a  dozen  men  in  the  neighborhood,  sons  of  Gott- 
fried's former  friends  and  comrades,  to  whom  his  little  store 
was  still  a  magnet.  Before  an  election,  on  the  eve  of  a 
great  strike  or  of  some  important  event  in  the  socialist  or  labor 
movement,  these  men  would  seek  out  Gottfried's  shop  and 
would  spend  the  evening  there  arguing,  debating. 

The  discussions  were  not,  however,  as  harmonious  as  of 
yore.  While  all  of  the  men  were  trade  unionists,  not  all  of 
them  were  socialists.  Some  of  them  were  distinctly  opposed 
to  the  socialist  movement  and  were  bitter  in  denunciation  of 
its  program  and  especially  of  its  leadership.  The  severest 
critics  of  the  socialists  were  most  often  children  of  the  very 
men  who  a  generation  back  had  made  great  sacrifices  to  build 
up  the  movement.  Arthur  Gessner  was  such  a  one.  Arthur's 
father,  Rudolph  Gessner,  was  one  of  the  early  Lassalleans. 
Gottfried  well  remembered  the  days  when  he  and  Rudolph 
Gessner  spoke  from  the  same  platform.    Now  Gessner's  son 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  333 

was  the  severest,  though  Gottfried  had  to  admit,  also  a  sin- 
cere and  often  very  sane  critic  of  the  socialists. 

Gottfried  seldom  took  part  in  discussions  now.  He  had 
been  away  from  the  movement  too  long  and  had  not  followed 
the  trend  of  events  closely.  His,  or  rather  his  son's,  family 
troubles  had  absorbed  him  completely.  Only  on  rare  occa- 
sions when  he  was  appealed  to  for  an  opinion  would  he  break 
his  silence.  He  still  read  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung  regularly, 
though  he  often  found  the  English  papers  more  interesting. 
They  contained  so  much.  It  was  from  them  more  often  than 
from  the  Arbeiter  Zeitung  that  he  got  a  real  glimpse  of  the 
progress  which  his  ideas,  socialist  ideas,  were  making  in 
America.  The  world  certainly  was  moving.  It  was  going 
forward  at  a  lively  pace.  Of  course  his  dreams,  the  dreams 
of  his  socialist  friends,  of  the  pioneer  Lassalleans,  had  not 
been  realized.  The  social  revolution,  which  they  had  looked 
forward  to  in  their  youthful  enthusiasm,  had  not  come  to  pass. 
But  then  —  they  had  expected  too  much.  He  felt  embar- 
rassed at  times  when  he  recalled  the  extravagant  views  which 
he  and  his  comrades  once  held.  They  were  so  greatly  at 
variance  with  human  nature.  They  had  thought  that  social- 
ism could  change  human  institutions  over  night  and  human 
nature  with  it.  They  were  young.  They  had  believed  in 
miracles  after  their  own  fashion. 

But  things  had  been  going  forward  at  a  lively  pace. 
Gottfried  found  evidence  of  this  daily,  everywhere.  Most  of 
what  had  been  a  purely  socialist  vocabulary  thirty  years 
back  had  now  become  common  usage.  Many  of  the  ideas 
which  when  preached  by  him  and  his  friends  a  generation 
ago  were  decried  as  treason,  now  were  advocated  by  conserva- 
tive statesmen.  A  few  of  them  already  had  been  framed  into 
law.  Great  American  newspapers  now  used  the  very  phrases 
for  which  he,  Gottfried,  had,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  been 


334  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

pulled  down  from  the  platform  and  clubbed  by  the  police. 
Yes,  time  was  a  great  jester.  .  .  . 

But  while  Gottfried  looked  with  satisfaction  upon  the 
spread  of  his  ideas,  he  could  not  free  himself  entirely  from 
a  distressing  conviction  that  the  spread  of  radical  phraseology, 
thought,  and  here  and  there  even  law  did  not  always  imply 
a  corresponding  spread  of  reform.  The  economic  status  of 
the  great  mass  of  city  workmen  was  not  improving.  It  was, 
in  fact,  getting  worse.  At  least  that  was  his  observation. 
More  homes  were  being  broken  up  every  year  by  unemploy- 
ment. The  masses  in  New  York,  in  all  industrial  centers, 
were  forever  living  in  dread  and  uncertainty.  There  was  no 
twilight  zone  for  the  common  laborer.  He  either  had  a  job, 
enough  to  eat  and  a  roof  over  his  head,  or  he  had  no  job  — 
and  in  that  case  was  face  to  face  with  utter  want,  with  the 
gutter  —  or  the  charity  organization.  The  quality  of  citizen- 
ship in  the  working  class  was  of  a  low  order.  Character  was 
declining.  The  beast  in  man  was  coming  to  the  surface  more 
and  more. 

Arthur  Gessner  indirectly  laid  the  subject  wide  open  one 
evening.  Gessner  was  charging  the  socialists  with  a  loss  of 
character,  a  want  of  vision.  The  movement  was  no  longer 
the  vanguard  of  progress,  he  was  saying.  It  was  being  under- 
mined by  narrow,  selfish,  clique  leadership.  The  old  party 
politicians  were  exploiting  their  parties  for  gain ;  the  socialist 
politicians  were  exploiting  the  movement  for  vanity.  In  com- 
parison with  the  leaders  of  a  generation  back,  the  socialist 
leaders  of  to-day,  Gessner  shouted,  were  "  manikins,  pyg- 
mies." 

Gottfried  half  listened  to  Gessner  at  first.  An  item  he  had 
read  in  the  evening  paper  had  greatly  stirred  and  shaken 
him.  It  was  about  a  friend  of  his  boyhood,  a  German  immi- 
grant like  himself,  who  was  now  a  wealthy  farmer  out  West. 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  335 

The  item  was  like  a  voice  from  the  past.  He  recalled  the 
day  when  this  boyhood  friend  of  his  had  left  New  York  to 
pioneer  on  the  land.  Gottfried  might  have  gone  with  him; 
his  friend  had  pleaded  with  him  to  leave  the  city.  But  he 
would  not.  He  had  felt  the  call  to  preach  the  new  ideas  of 
brotherhood  and  humanity  to  the  oppressed  and  exploited  city 
workers  and  he  stayed  with  Kolb,  with  the  others.  .  .  . 

The  increasing  vehemence  of  Gessner's  arguments  finally 
roused  Gottfried  and  he  began  answering  him.  Arthur  Gess- 
ner  and  his  Fred  had  been  schoolfellows  together  and  Gott- 
fried cherished  the  memory  of  those  days,  and  was  always 
well  disposed  to  Gessner  despite  his  violent  antipathies. 

"  What  you  say  is  true  —  too  true."  Gottfried  spoke,  with- 
out passion,  without  heat.  "  But  you  are  not  distributing 
the  blame  evenly.  The  socialist  party  is  suffering  from  a  lack 
of  character,  but  that  is  not  purely  a  socialist  fault.  It  is 
characteristic  of  the  whole  of  our  society.  We  are  living 
in  a  characterless  age.  We  are  living  in  an  age  of  things, 
not  of  men,  we  are  living  in  an  age  that  puts  a  premium  on 
deceit,  that  makes  a  mockery  of  sincerity  and  a  jest  of  self- 
sacrifice.  We  have  been  dwarfed.  Parties,  like  men,  are 
the  product  of  their  times,  their  age.  The  socialist  movement 
takes  its  leaders  from  the  material  at  hand,  and  the  human 
material  of  to-day  is  of  an  inferior  quality.  ...  It  is  a 
big  problem  you  have  touched  on  here  and  responsibility  for 
it  cannot  be  saddled  upon  one  group  or  class. 

"  To  me,"  Gottfried  came  back  to  the  subject  after  brief 
reflection,  "  the  far  worse  result  from  this  decay  of  character 
than  the  inferior  brand  of  leadership,  socialist  or  otherwise, 
is  the  deteriorating  quality  of  the  great  army  of  democracy. 
The  overbearing  snobbery  or  autocracy  of  an  individual 
leader  I  can  observe  with  indifference,  but  the  decline  in  the 
character  of  an  entire  class,  one  might  almost  say  of  a  people, 


336  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

leaves  me  worried.  It  is  possible  that  at  my  age  one  becomes 
discouraged  too  readily,  but  I  often  find  myself  wondering  if 
our  city  workers  upon  whom  we  have  always  relied  to  form 
the  backbone  of  the  great  democratic  army  which  is  to  liber- 
ate mankind  —  I  am  often  wondering  these  days  if  these 
city  workers  have  the  stamina,  the  character  for  the  job. 

"  The  factory,  industry,  the  ever-present  specter  of  jobless- 
ness, batter  all  courage  out  of  our  city  men.  The  fear  of 
a  hungry  to-morrow  makes  a  thief,  a  liar,  a  potential  traitor 
and  assassin  out  of  every  one.  ...  I  have  been  thinking  these 
things  over  a  good  deal  of  late  and  I  am  in  doubt.  At  times 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  backbone  of  the  great  army  of 
democracy  of  America  will  come  not  from  the  festering  slums 
and  the  sodden  tenements  of  the  East,  but  from  the  broad 
fields  and  rolling  prairies  of  the  West.     The  West  — " 

Conrad  grew  silent.  He  was  gazing  over  the  heads  of  the 
people  in  the  room  as  if  he  were  seeing,  discerning  something 
in  the  distance.  .  .  .  No  one  disturbed  his  revery.  He  awoke 
from  it  after  a  few  moments. 

"  Let  me  show  you  something."  He  produced  the  news- 
paper, marked  the  item  about  his  boyhood  friend,  and  passed 
it  across  the  counter.  It  told  of  a  man  named  Henry  Esser, 
a  farmer  in  the  state  of  Kansas  who  was  the  father  of  ten 
sons  and  sixty-five  grandchildren.  The  Esser  family  owned 
close  to  three  thousand  acres  of  land.  Recently  the  father 
and  his  nine  married  sons  put  in  an  order  for  ten  auto- 
mobiles. 

"  Henry  Esser  and  I  were  friends  once,"  Gottfried  ex- 
plained. His  mind  was  ages  distant  from  the  conversation 
of  a  few  minutes  previous.  "  We  came  over  on  the  same 
vessel.  He  was  heartbroken  because  he  could  not  persuade 
me  to  go  West  with  him  —  to  the  land.  I  am  heartbroken 
to-day  because  I  stayed  here.  .  .  ." 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  337 

It  was  a  momentary  weakness  that  had  wrung  this  un- 
expected confession  from  Conrad.  And  he  had  not  seen  his 
grandson  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  store,  listening  to  every 
word  he  said,  watching  his  grandfather's  every  gesture.  He 
was  under  the  impression  that  Robert  was  out.  .  .  . 

In  a  few  minutes  the  place  was  deserted.  Gottfried  pulled 
down  the  blinds  and,  putting  out  the  light,  went  to  the  rear  of 
the  store,  to  his  living-room,  to  make  a  cup  of  coffee.  The 
drinking  of  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  before  retiring  was  one  of  the 
concessions  he  was  making  to  his  advancing  age.  While 
Gottfried  was  busying  himself  about  the  gas  stove,  his  grand- 
son sat  on  his  cot  as  if  in  a  trance.  Gottfried  poured  a  cup 
of  coffee  for  Robert  and  called  him. 

"  Why  haven't  you  ever  spoken  to  me  —  like  this  —  about 
the  West,  about  land?  "  Robert  turned  on  his  grandfather 
pensively. 

Gottfried  was  silent. 

"  At  any  rate,"  Robert  continued,  "  I'm  glad  you  spoke 
to-night  the  way  you  did.  It  has  cleared  many  things  for 
me.  I  know  what  I  want  now.  ...  I  am  going  West  —  I 
am  going  to  be  a  farmer.  .  .  ." 

Robert  looked  up  at  his  grandfather.  There  was  the  least 
bit  of  a  challenge  in  the  boy's  gaze.  He  was  determined 
to  defend  his  ideas  to  his  grandfather,  to  convince  him 
that  he  was  right  and  that  his  plans  were  practical.  He 
had  thought  them  out  carefully.  Gottfried  studied  the  boy 
thoughtfully. 

Robert  was  now  speaking  quickly,  earnestly.  The  govern- 
ment was  giving  away  land,  homesteads  in  Nevada,  Oregon, 
California.  He  read  about  it  in  a  Sunday  paper  —  Gott- 
fried was  selling  the  Sunday  papers  in  his  store  now  and  Rob- 
ert scanned  them  eagerly.  There  was  a  story  there  about  a 
boy  from  the  East  who  made  his  way  to  a  homestead.    Robert 


338  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

meant  to  get  such  a  homestead  too.  He  would  go  to  Cali- 
fornia.    He  would  take  out  a  claim  there. 

"  You  remember  Father  always  spoke  of  California,"  Rob- 
ert's tense  features  of  a  moment  previous  relaxed  at  the  mem- 
ory of  his  past,  of  their  past.  "  He  once  wrote  a  letter  from 
prison  to  us  about  California.  It  must  have  done  Father  good 
to  dream  of  that  far  off  state  then.  I  shall  go  there.  I  want 
to  have  a  farm  in  California.  And  maybe  Father  will  find 
me  there  some  day,  and  you  and  Ruth.  .  .  ." 

The  Eastern  boy  in  the  Sunday  story  had  worked  his  way 
to  the  West.  Robert  meant  to  work  his  way  to  California 
too.  He  began  to  outline  to  his  grandfather  a  plan  for  get- 
ting there.  He  had  enough  money  to  take  him  to  Chicago. 
He  would  work  in  Chicago,  Kansas  City,  Denver,  anywhere 
—  he  would  work  at  anything  —  what  difference  did  it  make? 
It  was  only  a  means  to  an  end. 

Gottfried,  too,  had  read  the  article  in  the  Sunday  paper. 
He  could  not  help  reading  it;  the  pictures  accompanying  the 
story  were  so  appealing.  They  seemed  to  tear  one's  imagina- 
tion wide  open.  For  days  he  kept  seeing  the  picture  of  the 
little  homestead  in  the  Far  West  before  his  eyes  constantly. 
.  .  .  He  gazed  at  his  grandson.  Robert  was  as  tall  as  him- 
self. There  was  an  expression  of  seriousness  about  him  that 
made  him  look  manly,  reliable.  At  the  boy's  age  he,  Gott- 
fried, was  a  man,  had  roamed  the  world  at  will.  However, 
there  was  a  drawback  that  the  boy  in  his  eagerness  over- 
looked completely.     Gottfried  reminded  him  of  it. 

"  But  you  are  only  nineteen  years  old,"  he  said.  "  The  boy 
in  the  story  was  twenty-one  when  he  went  out  there.  They 
don't  give  homesteads  to  persons  under  twenty-one." 

Robert's  head  sank.  He  sat  motionless  for  some  minutes. 
Then  he  rose,  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  stopping  in 
front  of  an  old  mirror  which  was  hanging  on  the  wall.     He 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  339 

gazed  at  himself  intently  then  turned  to  his  grandfather. 

"  I  am  twenty-one,"  he  said.  "  I'm  the  right  age  to  take 
out  a  claim." 

Gottfried  looked  at  his  grandson  pityingly.  The  boy  was 
laboring  under  a  terrific  strain.  The  dream  of  the  West,  of 
a  homestead  in  California,  was  too  enticing,  too  fond  a  dream 
to  give  up  easily. 

"  My  son,"  Gottfried  began,  "  I  would  not  like  to  see  you 
start  out  on  any  undertaking  with  a  lie  at  the  founda- 
tion. .  .  ." 

He  got  no  further. 

"  A  lie!  A  lie!  "  Robert  was  in  a  rage.  "  Why,  every- 
thing is  based  on  lies  in  this  city,  in  this  world.  I  had  to 
lie  to  get  my  job,  and  I  lie  daily  to  hold  it.  Do  you  call 
it  a  lie  to  deny  two  years  of  my  life  to  the  government  in 
order  to  get  to  the  land?  Am  I  hurting  any  one  with  the 
lie?  Besides,  it  is  no  lie.  A  man  is  as  old  as  he  has 
suffered.  ..." 

He  could  not  continue  for  emotion.  There  was  an  old 
dresser  in  the  comer  of  the  room.  Robert  staggered  over 
to  it,  put  both  his  elbows  on  top  of  it  and  took  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

Gottfried  watched  his  grandson  for  a  time.  That  was  a 
phase  of  the  boy  he  had  not  suspected.  He  had  always 
thought  of  Ruth  as  approaching  him  nearest  in  strength,  and 
had  classed  Robert  more  with  his  father.  He  had  under- 
estimated the  boy's  character.  .  .  . 

He  rose  and,  walking  over  to  where  Robert  stood  leaning 
against  the  dresser,  put  his  hand  on  his  grandson's  shoulder. 

"  You  are  going  West,"  he  said,  "  and  you  are  not  going 
by  devious  routes.  You  are  not  going  to  work  your  way. 
You  are  going  to  take  a  train  straight  for  Sacramento.  .  .  ." 

Robert  stood  up  as  if  electrified. 


340  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"  And  while  you  are  pioneering  there,  until  you  have  sub- 
dued the  land  sufficiently  to  give  you  a  living,  you  shall  not 
miss  your  coffee  and  bacon  in  the  morning  —  as  long  as  I 
live,  as  long  as  I  am  able.  ..." 

Long  after  the  light  was  out  Robert  and  his  grandfather 
were  still  exchanging  ideas  about  the  coming  journey  to  the 
West. 

"  You  know,"  Robert  said,  and  his  voice  seemed  muffled, 
"  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  shall  find  Father  there.  ...  He 
had  always  been  dreaming  about  the  West  —  Cali- 
fornia. .  .  ." 

Gottfried  did  not  reply.  It  was  one  o'clock  when  the  boy 
finally  fell  asleep.  But  Gottfried  was  awake  for  a  long  time 
yet,  listening  to  his  grandson's  breathing  and  seeing  with  his 
closed  eyes  a  homestead  far,  far  away,  a  house  that  was  to 
be  his  grandson's,  theirs,  his  —  the  House  of  Conrad.  .  .  . 

Late  on  a  misty  September  evening,  two  men  were  stealthily 
making  their  way  between  long  rows  of  freight-cars  in  one 
of  Chicago's  enormous  freight  yards.  One  of  the  men  was 
Fred  Conrad.  The  younger  of  the  two,  a  boy  of  twenty-five, 
led  the  way.  Both  were  dressed  in  frayed  summer  garments 
and  each  had  a  diminutive  bundle  under  his  arm  —  all  his 
worldly  possessions.  It  was  the  younger  one  who  was  study- 
ing the  freight-cars  with  the  eyes  of  experience.  He  ex- 
amined more  than  a  dozen  and  finally  found  one  whose  door 
yielded  readily.  He  climbed  into  it  as  swiftly  as  a  cat  and 
then  helped  the  older  man  pull  himself  up  after  him. 
,  "  It's  easy  to  see  that  you're  new  to  the  game  —  the  way 
you  tried  to  climb  into  the  car,"  the  youth  whispered  in- 
dulgently. He  moved  the  door  back  in  its  place,  put  his  ear 
to  the  side  of  the  car  and  listened.    There  was  no  one  near. 


GOTTFRIED  RUMINATES  341 

"  The  train  pulls  out  at  midnight,"  he  confided.     "  If  we  are 
lucky,  we  will  make  Kansas  City  at  one  stretch." 

In  the  company  of  the  boy,  who  despite  his  youth  was  a 
confirmed  tramp,  Fred  Conrad  was  seeking  to  find  his  way 
West  to  escape  the  rigors  of  Chicago's  winter.  A  prolonged 
stay  at  the  County  Hospital  had  left  him  greatly  weakened 
physically  and  mentally.  Nothing  seemed  to  matter  much 
to  him  except  cold.  His  whole  body  was  sensitive  to  cold, 
his  chest  especially.  After  the  excitement  of  stealing  his 
way  past  all  sorts  of  switchmen  and  train  attendants,  a  weak- 
ness overcame  Fred,  and  a  chill.  But  the  thought  that  he 
was  leaving  the  city  behind  him,  that  he  was  to  escape  to  a 
warmer  climate,  to  California,  cheered  and  heartened  him. 
He  had  a  vague  feeling  as  if  he  were  at  last  going  home  to 
friends,  to  very  dear  friends.  .  .  .  His  mind  was  wander- 
ing. .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD 

WHEN  the  employment  agent,  as  a  matter  of  routine, 
asked  for  her  name,  her  heart  stood  still  for  an  in- 
stant —  and  then  she  answered.  But  she  gave  her  name  in  a 
raised,  tremulous  voice.  Her  "  Ruth  Conrad  "  had  a  ring 
of  both  alarm  and  challenge  in  it. 

The  agent  noted  the  changing  emotions  of  the  girl  and  how 
she  mastered  them,  and  put  her  down  in  his  mind  as  a 
"  determined  young  person."  Determined  was  precisely  what 
Ruth  was.  He  found  it  out  in  the  next  few  minutes  when 
she  began  to  describe  to  him  very  positively  the  sort  of  place 
she  wanted.  She  wanted  a  job  that  required  no  experience 
and  that  could  be  learned  in  a  reasonable  time.  She  wanted 
the  agent  to  make  sure  to  tell  her  prospective  employer  that 
she  was  without  experience;  she  desired  no  misunderstanding 
with  any  one  on  that  score.  Furthermore,  she  wanted  no 
flimsy  kind  of  a  job.  She  turned  down  point-blank  a  call 
for  a  waitress  in  an  ice-cream  parlor  and  another  for  a  girl 
to  work  in  the  checkroom  of  a  large  restaurant,  though  neither 
of  these  jobs  called  for  experience.  Housework,  any  kind  of 
housework,  Ruth  said,  would  suit  her  better.  Likewise  she 
drew  the  line  against  going  into  a  very  rich  home.  She  pre- 
ferred an  employer  from  the  middle-class,  even  from  among 
the  poorer  people. 

The  agent  glanced  at  a  list  in  front  of  him,  the  day's 
urgent  calls  for  help. 

342 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD    343 

"  The  nearest  thing  I  have  to  housework,"  he  said,  "  that 
is  where  experience  is  not  called  for,  is  this  place  here,  the 
Hugo  Rooming  House.  Mme.  Lamarck,  the  keeper  of  the 
rooming  house,  wants  a  maid  to  help  her  with  the  work.  No 
experience  is  required;  she  prefers  to  train  her  own  girls." 

There  was  a  dubious  look  in  Ruth's  eyes  at  the  words 
"  Mme.  Lamarck."  The  agent  perceived  it  and  made  a  men- 
tal note  of  that  too. 

"  You  need  not  worry  about  the  name,"  he  explained  with 
the  faintest  trace  of  a  smile.  "  The  name  of  the  woman  I 
am  sending  you  to  is  Mrs.  Fitzgerald.  But  the  woman  who 
kept  the  place  before  her  was  known  as  Lamarck  and  I  some- 
times get  the  names  mixed  and  refer  to  the  new  proprietor 
by  the  name  of  her  predecessor.  You  will  find  Mrs.  Fitzger- 
ald a  nice  person  to  deal  with.  She  is  straight  and  is  con- 
siderate to  her  help;  she  has  a  reputation  for  that." 

Whenever  Ruth  recalled  the  morning  the  employment  agent 
asked  for  her  name  —  the  first  time  she  had  been  asked  for  it 
in  San  Francisco  —  she  was  filled  with  a  quiet  happiness. 
She  was  glad  she  had  given  him  her  real  name,  glad  she  was 
known  by  her  right  name.  Her  name  was  now  the  only  con- 
necting link  between  her  and  her  past.  It  was  dear  to  her, 
all  the  more  dear  because  she  had  been  so  near  losing  it.  She 
trembled  whenever  she  recalled  those  days  of  doubt  and  in- 
decision. .  .  . 

For  three  days  on  the  train  from  New  York  to  San  Fran- 
cisco she  was  in  dread.  Constantly  she  feared  she  was  going 
to  be  arrested.  Every  time  the  conductor  walked  past  her  she 
had  to  suppress  a  desire  to  jump  up  and  cry  out  her  inno- 
cence. At  one  moment  she  was  sorry  she  had  left  New  York; 
she  might  as  well  have  faced  everything  there  and  have  it 
over  with.  The  next  moment,  however,  she  would  vow  that 
if  she  got  to  San  Francisco  she  would  never,  never  want  to 


344  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

see  New  York  again.  If  she  only  got  there  safely,  she  would 
promptly  change  her  name;  she  would  sever  all  connections 
with  the  past,  no  matter  what  the  cost  might  be,  what  pain 
it  would  give  her. 

The  thought  of  changing  her  name  had  become  a  fixed  idea 
with  her  for  a  while.  Therein  lay  safety.  She  would  obliter- 
ate her  past  completely.  She  would  cease  to  be  Ruth  Conrad ; 
she  would  become  Margaret  Clark  —  Miss  Clark.  "  Miss 
Clark,  Miss  Clark,"  it  kept  ringing  in  her  ears.  And  sud- 
denly her  own  voice  seemed  strange  to  her.  It  was  hoarse 
and  unpleasant.  ...  It  was  not  her  voice  any  more.  .  .  . 
No,  a  thousand  times  no!  She  would  not  change  her  name; 
she  would  stay  what  she  was  —  Ruth  Conrad.  Ruth  —  no 
matter  what  came,  in  the  face  of  everything.  .  .  .  She  looked 
furtively  about  to  see  whether  any  of  the  passengers  in  the 
car  had  divined  her  thoughts,  her  base,  ignoble  thoughts. 
But  the  passengers  seemed  quite  oblivious  of  her.  It  was 
half-past  seven  in  the  evening.  The  porter  was  making  up 
the  bed  for  a  woman  with  a  baby.  An  aged  couple  were 
playing  cards.  A  prosperous  fur  merchant  from  Michigan, 
who  was  going  to  San  Diego  with  his  wife,  had  found  a  will- 
ing auditor  in  a  young  man  and  was  telling  him  at  length 
the  story  of  his  own  success,  interspersing  it  with  morals  and 
encouragement.  Some  one  was  saying  that  during  the  night 
they  would  cross  the  highest  point  and  that  the  next  day  they 
would  reach  the  desert.  Ruth  was  glad  when  the  porter  had 
made  her  bed.  She  crawled  into  it  and  found  relief  from  a 
day  of  doubt  and  torture  in  tears. 

She  awoke  with  a  memory.  It  was  the  memory  of  Mary  — 
the  blond  Mary  Parker.  Mary  was  an  inmate  of  the  Home 
of  Redemption.  She  had  the  face  of  a  saint,  was  very  pleas- 
ant and  good.  And  yet  every  one  at  the  Home  mistrusted 
her  because  no  one  knew  just  exactly  who  she  was.     She  had 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD  345 

gone  by  several  names,  according  to  the  police,  and  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  all  the  girls  at  the  Home  liked  her  and  were 
won  by  her  pleasant  ways,  they  could  not  refrain  from  ask- 
ing her  now  and  then,  jocosely  or  in  earnest,  "  Mary,  are 
you  really  Mary?     Is  that  your  real  name?  " 

Mary  was  hurt  by  the  mistrust  of  the  girls  at  the  institu- 
tion and  when  she  was  alone  with  Ruth  she  frequently  philos- 
ophized to  her. 

"  Whatever  else  you  do,"  she  once  counseled  sadly,  "  stand 
by  your  name.  Stand  by  it  and  it  will  stand  by  you.  If  your 
trouble  is  trifling,  it  won't  affect  your  name  much;  it  will  soon 
be  forgotten.  If  it  is  serious,  the  fact  that  you  changed  your 
name  will  lend  it  a  more  sinister  aspect." 

Mary's  advice  confirmed  Ruth's  final  determination  not 
to  change  her  name.  But  more  than  the  memory  of  the  past, 
the  living  present  now  presented  the  strongest  argument 
against  such  a  course.  When  she  climbed  out  of  her  berth 
she  found  the  car  flooded  with  sunshine.  Through  the 
window  the  country  presented  a  wonderful  spectacle.  The 
plateau,  with  here  and  there  an  adobe  village  from  which 
the  smoke  was  curling  lazily,  was  soothing,  comforting,  like 
the  hand  of  a  mother.  But  it  was  the  Arizona  desert  that 
presented  the  strongest  argument  against  changing  one's  name. 
The  desert  seemed  endless.  The  purple  hills,  which  stood 
imperturbable  in  the  distance,  shed  some  of  their  serenity  into 
Ruth's  heart.  New  York  seemed  but  a  bad  dream.  As  she 
lay  back  in  her  seat  gazing  at  the  dry  stubble  and  cactus 
which  seemed  to  line  the  whole  earth  and  become  one  with 
the  horizon,  she  recalled  Biblical  scenes  she  had  read  in  her 
Sunday-school  lessons.  She  forgot  the  train,  the  evidence  of 
twentieth  century  civilization,  and  was  ready  to  believe  her- 
self the  child  of  another  age,  of  an  ancient  tribal  community. 
.  .  .  There  was  such  a  distance  between  her  and  her  imme- 


346  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

diate  past  —  such  a  vast  distance.  .  .  .  No,  she  need  not  fear 
to  go  by  her  right  name;  she  need  not  hide  it  —  thank  God, 
she  need  not.  .  .  . 

In  San  Francisco  she  began  to  waver.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
it  would  be  safer  to  change  her  name.  .  .  .  The  city  was 
so  much  like  New  York  —  big  skyscrapers,  busy  streets. 
The  policemen  looked  the  same.  There  were  telegraph  offices 
everywhere.  A  telegram  from  New  York  reached  there  within 
an  hour.  It  was  almost  as  if  New  York  had  moved  next 
door.  .  .  .  Fear  was  once  more  uppermost  in  her  mind  and  it 
called  for  every  ounce  of  courage  she  possessed  to  overcome 
this  fear  and  to  give  the  employment  agent  her  real  name. 

That  was  why  she  thrilled  with  joy  every  time  she  re- 
called the  morning  on  which  her  name  —  her  self  —  was 
saved  to  her.  When  addressed  as  Miss  Conrad  by  one  of  the 
roomers  in  the  house,  or  as  Ruth  by  Mrs.  Fitzgerald,  she 
would  often  forget  the  bitterness  of  her  existence  —  her  lone- 
liness. .  .  .  Her  separation  from  her  family  would  seem  only 
temporary  in  such  moments,  the  cloud  would  soon  be  lifted. 
.  .  .  Something  would  happen  and  they  would  be  reunited 
once  more.  ...  It  was  not  possible  that  the  break  in  her 
life  would  never  be  made  whole  again,  that  the  wound  would 
never  heal  up.  .  .  .  The  sun  was  shining  the  same  as  ever. 
People  all  around  were  kind  and  humane.  Something  would, 
must  happen,  to  lift  the  gloom  of  separation.  She  was 
awaiting,  she  did  not  clearly  know  herself  what,  but  she 
was  awaiting  something.  And  of  course  she  did  not  write. 
.  .  .  That  might  be  dangerous.  .  .  . 

Letters  were  not  to  be  relied  upon.  She  had  known  a  girl 
at  the  Home  of  Redemption  who  had  been  trapped  by  a  let- 
ter she  had  written.  Detectives  had  traced  her  by  means  of 
that  letter.  No,  she  would  wait  until  —  until.  .  .  .  Her 
thoughts  were  hazy,  but  her  feelings  were  definite.     Some 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD  347 

way,  somehow,  the  connection  between  her  and  her  family 
would  be  reestablished.  They  were  always  in  her  thoughts 
—  her  father,  Robert,  her  grandfather  —  always.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Fitzgerald  turned  out  to  be  all  that  the  agent  had 
claimed  for  her.  She  was  considerate  with  Ruth,  considerate 
with  every  one.  She  was  tolerant  of  people  and  of  life.  It 
was  a  tolerance  that  came  with  age  and  understanding.  Mrs. 
Fitzgerald's  husband  had  been  the  manager  of  a  sewing 
machine  company.  He  was  doing  well  and  they  lived  in  a 
wealthy  section  of  San  Francisco.  They  had  no  children 
and  so  they  always  felt  young  —  far  younger  than  they  were. 
At  forty-eight  Mr.  Fitzgerald  felt  that  he  was  just  entering  his 
career  in  earnest.  His  wife  was  forty-five,  but  still  pretty 
much  of  a  girl.  One  Sunday  Mr.  Fitzgerald  went  on  a  hunt- 
ing trip  with  friends.  One  of  those  frequent  accidents  hap- 
pened and  he  was  brought  back  dead.  He  had  shot  himself. 
His  insurance  just  enabled  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  to  buy  out  the 
rooming  house  from  Mme.  Lamarck.  And  then  came  wis- 
dom and  understanding  and  tolerance.  .  .  . 

She  insisted  on  running  a  "  straight  rooming  house,"  "  a 
home,"  as  she  phrased  it,  and  therein  lay  the  secret  of  her 
success.  A  "  home  "  appealed  to  most  people.  Her  twenty 
odd  rooms  were  always  filled.  They  were  filled  with  women, 
self-supporting  women  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  called  them,  and 
asked  no  further. 

"  I  require  no  references  of  my  roomers,"  she  explained  to 
Ruth  soon  after  the  girl  came  to  work  for  her,  "  but  I  tell 
my  prospective  tenants  that  I  rent  out  rooms  for  a  home  only. 
I  don't  pry  into  anybody's  affairs.  This  is  a  large  world 
and  there  are  all  sorts  of  people  in  it,  and  since  they  are  here, 
I  presume  they  have  a  right  to  be  here.  I  pass  judgment 
upon  no  one.  But  I  insist  on  keeping  my  side  of  the  street 
clean.    If  a  man  wants  to  drink,  let  him  go  to  a  saloon.    If 


348  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

a  woman  wants  to  make  a  pig  of  herself,  let  her  do  it  else- 
where.    This  is  his  or  her  home." 

That  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  was  not  prying  into  anybody's  busi- 
ness was  very  evident.  Ruth  was  left  strictly  alone  by  the 
landlady  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  her  private  or  family  life. 
Mrs.  Fitzgerald  made  not  the  slightest  attempt  to  ascertain 
who  Ruth  was,  whence  she  came  or  what  brought  her  to  the 
work  of  a  chambermaid.  This,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they 
were  often  working  together  for  hours,  mending  and  sort- 
ing linen,  and  doing  other  work  about  the  house.  Ruth 
appreciated  her  employer's  attitude  and  showed  her  appre- 
ciation of  this  quality  of  reserve  by  exercising  it  herself  to- 
ward the  people  with  whom  she  came  in  contact  —  the  room- 
ers. 

She  had  a  feeling  that  every  one  of  the  women  roomers 
would  appreciate  her  lack  of  prying  into  their  lives,  just  as 
she  appreciated  her  employer's  want  of  interest  in  herself. 
And  so  she  did  her  work  well,  answered  a  request  courteously, 
but  never  lingered  longer  in  any  one  room  than  was  neces- 
sary. 

While  she  restrained  her  curiosity,  she  was  none  the  less 
interested  in  the  life  of  the  women  roomers.  They  were  all 
older  than  she  and  her  life  ten  years  hence  might  be  the  same 
as  that  of  these  women  now.  Only  about  half  a  dozen  of  the 
twenty  women  roomers  left  the  house  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  The  rest  were  seldom  up  before  ten.  Some 
slept  later.  The  shifting,  uncertain  ways  women  had  of 
making  a  living  in  the  city  were  unfolding  themselves  before 
Ruth's  eyes  of  their  own  accord.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Fitzgerald 
would  volunteer  an  observation  that  would  shed  a  flood  of 
light  on  the  dark  recesses  of  the  city's  life. 

"  Give  Room  11a  complete  overhauling,"  Mrs.  Fitzgerald 
told  Ruth  one  morning. 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD    349 

The  girl  looked  up  at  her  with  surprise.  A  complete  over- 
hauling was  given  a  room  only  when  some  one  moved  out  and 
the  room  was  to  be  made  ready  for  a  new  tenant.  Mrs. 
Walsh  was  occupying  1 1  and  Ruth  had  not  heard  anything  of 
the  woman's  going. 

"  A  detective  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago  making  inquiries 
about  Mrs.  Walsh,"  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  explained.  "  She  was 
arrested  in  a  dance  hall  in  Barbary  Coast  last  night.  A  watch 
was  stolen  from  some  man  and  she  was  taken  with  several 
other  girls.  I  don't  know  whether  she  is  guilty  or  innocent, 
but  I  don't  want  her  here  any  more.  Put  her  things  in  the 
closet  and  let  them  stay  there  until  she  calls." 

"  To  look  at  her,"  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  returned  to  the  subject 
of  Mrs.  Walsh  later  in  the  day,  "  you  would  think  she  was 
a  minister's  wife.  The  innocent  way  she  parts  her  hair  and 
the  modest  manners  —  you  would  think  she  had  never  heard 
of  Barbary  Coast,  let  alone  going  to  dances  there.  How- 
ever, that  is  just  the  way  things  go." 

Ruth  was  not  shy  of  people,  but  she  was  fearful  of  them, 
and  she  made  no  friends.  Her  fear  of  arrest,  of  being  taken 
back  to  New  York  had  become  faint.  Nevertheless,  she 
avoided  being  drawn  into  intimate  relationship  with  any  one, 
for  intimacy  was  bound  to  end  in  questions  about  herself,  her 
home,  her  family.  And  that  was  a  subject  that  had  best 
remain  untouched.  As  soon  as  any  one,  man  or  woman, 
attempted  to  become  friendly  she  drew  back. 

But,  just  as  without  her  prying  the  city  of  its  own  accord 
was  unfolding  its  mysteries  and  tragedies  to  her,  so  uncon- 
sciously she  had  been  drawn  into  a  friendship  with  one  of  the 
roomers.  The  young  woman  was  known  as  Lolita  Anderson, 
and  in  a  burst  of  confidence  she  told  Ruth  that  that  was  not 
her  name  —  that  she  had  assumed  it  after  she  went  into  "  this 
life." 


350  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Ruth  had  half  suspected  the  kind  of  life  Miss  "  Anderson  " 
was  leading  from  the  hours  the  woman  kept,  but  she  was  not 
prepared  for  the  double-barreled  confession. 

*'  Don't  ask  me  my  right  name,  or  where  I  come  from,  or 
why  I  am  in  this  life,"  the  girl  once  said  to  Ruth,  a  little 
exasperated.  Ruth  had  been  out  of  sorts  that  morning  and 
she  was  looking  at  Lolita  sadly,  quizzically.  "  I  like  you  too 
well,  and  if  you  begin  to  ask  me  too  many  questions,  that  will 
spoil  our  friendship." 

Ruth  asked  no  questions  —  had  not  intended  to  —  but 
often  in  the  afternoon  when  Miss  Anderson  would  be  dressing, 
Ruth  would  come  in  and  they  would  chat  for  a  few  minutes 
about  the  weather,  or  a  sensational  story  in  the  newspaper,  or 
a  headache  and  what  was  good  for  it. 

Every  other  Sunday  Ruth  had  the  afternoon  off.  Just 
before  going  out  one  Sunday,  she  stepped  into  Lolita's  room. 
The  girl  was  lying  on  the  bed  looking  through  the  Sunday 
paper.  She  stared  at  Ruth  without  speaking  for  some  mo- 
ments.    There  was  a  far-away  gaze  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  look,"  Lolita  finally  broke  the  silence,  "  as  if  you 
had  just  stepped  out  from  a  page  in  the  Bible.  You  know 
where  you  belong  with  that  face  of  yours,  child  ?  In  a  church 
window.  I  wonder  how  you  ever  got  here,  anyhow.  You 
don't  belong  among  us.  You  look  like  a  saint.  Who,  what 
are  you,  anyway?  " 

Lolita  was  heavy  hearted,  and  her  mood  readily  communi- 
cated itself  to  Ruth.  The  question  which  was  supposed  to 
be  banned  between  them  had  slipped  Lolita's  tongue,  but 
Ruth  was  not  angry.  It  did  not  exactly  call  for  an  answer. 
Ruth  found  herself  questioning  Lolita  in  turn  —  how  she 
had  come  to  this  life,  what  she  was  doing  toward  getting  out 
of  it. 


THE  DEATH  OP  FRED  CONRAD  351 

The  young  woman  did  not  answer  Ruth  at  once.  She 
gazed  at  the  girl  in  contemplation.  Ruth  was  young  and 
beautiful.  She  was  the  kind  of  girl  men  would  fall  in  love 
with  in  a  trice.  And  she  sat  there  in  the  rooming  house,  a 
chambermaid.  Lolita  had  lived  in  the  place  for  nearly  a 
year  and  Ruth  was  there  when  she  came.  Was  she  not  at 
all  aware  of  her  charms?  How  could  she  stand  this  life  of 
drudgery  and  loneliness? 

"  It  was  lonesomeness  in  my  case,"  Lolita  finally  re- 
sponded. "  I  came  to  the  city  to  work  as  you  are  doing  here 
and  I  was  lonely.  Everything  ached  within  me  for  loneli- 
ness. Then  he  came.  He  was  a  man  after  my  own  heart 
—  or  seemed  to  be.  We  fell  in  love;  he  was  a  wonderful 
lover.  We  could  not  marry;  he  did  not  earn  enough  to 
support  the  two  of  us.  But  he  was  a  dear  and  I  could  not 
resist.  .  .  .  Then  when  I  was  in  trouble  he  disappeared.  I 
never  heard  of  him  again.  ..." 

Lolita  paused  a  moment.  She  seemed  to  be  pursuing  a 
vision  with  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

"  Once  you  have  had  a  man,  a  friend,"  she  continued,  "  you 
crave  for  friendship.  You  loathe  men  and  you  love  them. 
You  cannot  hide  your  yearning  for  them.  Your  eyes  betray 
you;  they  beg  for  company,  for  friendship.  ...  I  ceased  to 
be  myself.  I  could  not  fix  my  mind  on  work.  ...  I  was 
unhappy.  Another  man  appeared.  We  stuck  to  each  other 
for  a  while  and  then  I  left  him.  I  was  sick  of  him.  I  had 
no  work  and  the  rent  was  not  paid  and  I  had  to  live. 
There  was  a  woman  in  the  same  rooming  house.  We  talked 
occasionally.  I  confided  my  trouble  to  her.  She  whispered 
a  suggestion  as  to  how  to  make  an  easy  living.  Well,  here 
I  am.     Easy.  .  .  ."     She  laughed  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

"  How  long  do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  stand  it  — 
this  life,  I  mean,  the  loneliness?  "  Lolita  asked  Ruth.     "  You 


352  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

are  a  puzzle  to  me,  child.  I  wonder  how  you  can  stand  this 
drudgery,  and  I  wonder  still  more  how  you  have  escaped  un- 
scathed with  that  face  and  figure  of  yours." 

"  I  am  used  to  loneliness,"  Ruth  replied  slowly,  her  eyes 
filling  with  memories.  The  memory  of  Channing  lingered 
but  an  instant  and  gave  way  to  the  memory  of  the  two  years 
she  had  spent  at  the  Home  of  Redemption,  the  terrible  loneli- 
ness of  the  place.  They  were  not  in  vain,  those  years  of 
helplessness  and  torment.  She  would  capitalize  them 
now,  the  strength  they  gave  her.  She  would  be  stronger 
than  Lolita.  Loneliness  would  never  drive  her  into  a  man's 
arms.  .  .  . 

Shortly  after  this  conversation  Lolita  moved.  She  was 
leaving  town  and  would  not  say  where  she  was  going.  Ruth 
felt  as  if  a  void  had  come  into  her  life. 

One  morning  a  couple  engaged  a  room  and  Ruth  fixed  it 
up  for  them  and  gave  them  the  keys.  The  man  was  very 
polite  and  pleasant.  The  woman  seemed  positively  happy 
in  their  new  home,  as  she  called  it.  An  hour  later,  half  a 
dozen  shots  threatened  to  split  the  sides  of  the  building.  Mrs. 
Fitzgerald  ran  to  the  door.  It  was  barred.  She  called  in  a 
policeman  and  they  forced  it  open.  The  woman  was  lying 
on  the  floor  in  a  pool  of  blood.  The  man  lay  at  her  feet. 
Both  were  dead.  The  coroner  declared  the  case  to  be  murder 
and  suicide.    The  bodies  were  removed  to  the  morgue. 

"  One  must  expect  such  a  thing  from  time  to  time  in  this 
business,"  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  tried  to  calm  Ruth  with  her  phi- 
losophy. "  One  can  keep  a  house  straight  easy  enough,  but 
one  cannot  prevent  a  woman  from  turning  on  the  gas  or  a 
couple  from  murdering  each  other." 

The  man  that  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  kept  for  the  rough  work 
about  the  house  scrubbed  the  floor  and  washed  off  the  blood- 
stains from  the  carpet.    Mrs.  Fitzgerald  herself  attended  to 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD  353 

the  rest  and  before  nightfall  the  room  was  ready  for  occu- 
pancy once  more.  But  Ruth  shivered  every  time  she  passed 
it.  She  slept  little  that  night  and  the  next  morning  she  came 
down  with  red  eyes  and  announced  that  she  was  going  to 
leave.  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  tried  to  dissuade  her,  advised  her  to 
be  less  sensitive  —  a  suicide  might  happen  anywhere.  But 
as  Ruth  would  not  be  swerved  from  her  determination,  the 
landlady  ceased  urging  her. 

When  Ruth  was  dressed  and  ready  to  go  down  in  the  street, 
she  came  to  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  and  timidly  asked  her  if  she 
could  give  her  name  as  a  reference  at  the  next  place  she 
applied  for  work. 

"  You  can,"  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  assured  her  warmly.  "  And 
it  is  the  very  best  of  reference  you  will  get.  Good  luck  to 
you,  wherever  you  go.  You  will  stay  straight  wherever  you 
are.  You  must  have  had  a  good  mother,  girl,  a  very  good 
mother." 

Ruth's  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears.  She  extended  her 
hand.  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  put  her  arms  about  her  and  kissed 
her. 

"  A  young  woman  for  restaurant  work,"  the  advertisement 
read.  The  address  given  was  that  of  an  office  building.  It 
was  different  from  the  usual  run  of  advertisements  In  that  it 
did  not  specify  the  nature  of  the  work  to  be  done,  or  call  for 
experience,  and  Ruth  decided  to  answer  it  before  going  to  the 
employing  agent.  In  a  small  office  sat  an  elderly  man  and  a 
girl  stenographer.  The  man,  Mr.  Mackenty,  kept  Ruth 
standing  at  a  distance  for  some  moments  while  he  gazed  at 
her.  He  then  motioned  her  to  a  chair  and  began  to  ask 
questions.  Where  had  she  worked  last  ?  When  had  she  left  ? 
Had  she  references?  Only  one?  Well,  she  might  come  in  at 
ten  o'clock  the  next  morning.  In  the  meantime  he  would 
call  up  Mrs.  Fitzgerald. 


354  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

Ruth  came  at  the  appointed  time  and  Mr.  Mackenty  greeted 
her  cordially. 

"  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  spoke  very  well  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
especially  pleased  with  the  fact  that  you  stayed  with  her  for 
nearly  two  years.  That  shows  that  you  are  not  a  flighty 
sort  of  person,  which  is  just  what  I  need.  Now,  the  proposi- 
tion is  this:  I  am  trying  an  experiment.  I  am  running  a 
chain  of  restaurants  for  poor  people.  I  give  wholesome  food 
at  popular,  in  fact,  cheap  prices,  and  I  serve  it  in  a  nice 
clean  place.  Some  of  these  restaurants  are  located  in  dis- 
tricts that  are  what  might  be  termed  tough.  I  have  tried 
the  experiment  in  two  such  places,  in  rough  districts,  of  put- 
ting a  woman  in  charge  of  the  restaurant  and  the  experiment 
has  worked  well.  The  presence  of  a  woman  manager  who 
oversees  the  waiters,  who  helps  out  the  cashier,  says  good- 
morning  to  the  customers,  I  find  has  an  admirable  effect.  It 
makes  for  order.  There  has  not  been  a  fight  or  any  kind  of 
trouble  in  either  of  the  two  places  since  I  placed  the  women 
there. 

"  Now  I  am  planning  to  put  a  woman  manager  in  a  third 
restaurant.     Do  you  think  you  are  the  woman  for  the  place?  " 

Ruth  gazed  at  the  man  in  surprise.  She  had  not  expected 
the  last  question.  She  was  there  to  look  for  work.  It  was  up 
to  him  to  say  whether  she  was  the  person  for  the  place  or 
not.     She  answered  him  to  that  effect. 

"  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  Mr.  Mackenty  replied,  "  my 
mind  is  made  up.  I  think  you  are  the  person  for  the  place. 
The  matter  is  really  up  to  you.  Do  you  think  you  are  the 
woman  for  such  a  job?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Ruth,  "  I  know  nothing  about  the  restaurant 
business." 

*'  That  is  no  consideration  whatever,"  Mackenty  replied. 
"  We  will  teach  you  all  you  need  to  know  about  the  restaurant 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD    355 

business.  What  I  expect  of  you  is  to  keep  order  in  the  place 
—  to  handle  people  so  that  they  will  have  respect  for  you 
and  for  the  place.  Do  you  think  you  can  do  that?  If  you 
think  you  can,  the  job  is  yours." 

"  I  would  like  to  have  a  try  at  it,"  Ruth  said.  "  I  think  I 
could  manage  it." 

"  All  right  then.  Come  in  here  at  nine  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning  and  we  will  go  over  to  the  place  together.  The 
salary  is  fifty  dollars  a  month  to  start.  You  will,  of  course, 
board  yourself  at  the  restaurant  and  save  that  expense.  ..." 

Ruth  had  a  whole  day  before  her  and  she  went  back  to  Mrs. 
Fitzgerald  —  to  visit.  For  the  first  time  San  Francisco 
seemed  home  to  her.  She  felt  that  she  had  a  friend  there. 
Mrs.  Fitzgerald  was  a  friend. 

The  world  seemed  to  be  on  parade.  Men  of  all  nations 
came  through  the  restaurant  door  daily,  walked  past  Ruth 
Conrad  and  received  her  cheerful  good-morning.  If  the 
place  was  well  filled,  she  helped  them  find  a  seat.  If  the 
waiter  was  busy  or  slow  she  cleared  the  table  for  a  customer 
and  took  his  order.  There  were  men  of  all  ages  and  de- 
scriptions among  the  patrons.  There  were  laborers,  express- 
men, teamsters  who  ran  in  for  a  beef  stew;  and  there  were 
men  who  had  begged  the  price  of  a  cup  of  coffee.  There 
were  men  in  threadbare  coats  and  frayed  trousers.  There 
were  young  men  with  hardened  faces  and  old  men  with  traces 
of  refinement  in  their  features.  There  were  boys,  stolid  look- 
ing youths,  who  had  sought  adventure  and  found  starvation; 
or  well  meaning  lads  who  had  slipped  back  in  the  game  of 
life  and  had  relaxed.  Men  from  the  remotest  parts  of  the 
earth,  fezed  Turks  and  turbaned  Hindoos  rubbed  shoulders 
with  tattered  Yankees  from  the  East  and  derelict  colonels 
from  the  South. 


356  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

There  were  many  men  of  her  father's  age,  and  her  father's 
physical  condition,  among  the  customers.  Among  the  boys 
there  were  many  who  were  the  same  age  as  Robert.  Fre- 
quently the  face,  voice,  or  gesture  of  one  of  these  would 
remind  her  of  her  parent  or  brother.  Such  a  man,  or  boy, 
would  immediately  get  her  warmest  attention.  If  he  ordered 
a  bowl  of  soup,  she  was  quick  to  bring  him  the  bottle  of 
catchup,  or  would  give  him  a  double  order  of  crackers.  When 
such  a  man  left,  she  would  watch  out  for  him  at  the  door 
and  whisper  good-day  to  him  with  so  much  kindness  that 
the  man  frequently  was  moved  to  reply,  "  God  bless  you, 
lady." 

She  worked  from  eight  in  the  morning  until  eight  at  night. 
But  in  spite  of  the  long  hours  she  was  never  overly  tired. 
The  work  was  not  fatiguing;  it  was  interesting.  It  was  as 
if  she  were  reading  a  good  book.  Every  face  she  met  was  a 
story.  .  .  . 

She  dreamed  a  great  deal  at  night.  Sometimes  it  was 
about  the  day's  happenings.  More  often  she  dreamed  of 
home  —  her  home  of  long  ago  —  of  her  childhood.  In 
those  dreams  her  father,  mother,  brother  and  she  herself 
appeared  as  they  had  looked  years  ago,  when  they  had  their 
little  home  in  the  Bronx,  long  before  the  train  of  calamities 
had  overtaken  the  family.  Once  she  dreamed  that  her  father 
had  come  into  the  restaurant.  It  was  a  windy  day  and  he 
was  thinly  clad.  His  face  was  pale  and  his  eyes  jaundiced. 
He  seemed  hardly  able  to  drag  himself  along  and  was  about 
to  pass  without  recognizing  her,  but  —  she  shrieked,  and 
awoke.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  tossed  on 
her  bed  for  another  hour,  moaning  softly,  and  then  rose  and 
began  to  dress. 

Henceforward  she  scrutinized  her  customers,  without  giving 
herself  a  definite  reason  for  doing  it.     She  was  not  expecting 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD  357 

to  find  her  brother  or  father  among  them.  But  she  might 
find  perhaps  some  one  from  New  York,  some  one  she  had 
known.  .  .  .  New  York  was  in  her  thoughts  constantly  now. 
This  persistent  thinking  of  home  made  her  melancholy.  Her 
speech  was  softer  than  ever;  her  face  kindlier.  Many  of  her 
homeless,  friendless  customers  came  to  the  place  in  prefer- 
ence to  nearer  restaurants  solely  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her 
face  and  hearing  her  soft  voice  as  she  inquired  whether  the 
coffee  was  hot  enough. 

She  was  planning  to  write  home;  it  was  time  she  did.  She 
no  longer  feared  trouble  from  New  York.  Three  and  a  half 
years  had  passed  since  the  day  the  detective  had  put  her  on  a 
train  for  San  Francisco.  She  had  learned  much  in  those 
years.  She  read  in  the  papers  daily  of  women  being  acquitted 
by  juries  of  serious  crimes.  And  she  was  innocent,  had  com- 
mitted no  crime  whatever.  Another  girl  in  her  place  might 
even  have  made  trouble  for  some  people  —  the  Averys,  the 
police.  .  .  .  She  had  heard  of  such  things.  But  not  she. 
She  loathed  the  thought  of  laying  bare  her  secrets  before  the 
world.  However,  there  seemed  to  be  no  visible  danger  in 
writing  to  her  home,  to  her  father,  now.  .  .  .  Still  she  post- 
poned doing  it  from  day  to  day.  If  she  only  had  a  friend  to 
confide  in,  to  ask  advice  of,  to  talk  with.  Mrs.  Fitzgerald 
was  a  good  friend,  but  she  somehow  did  not  seem  the  proper 
person  for  such  confidence.  Ruth  felt  toward  her  more  as 
she  might  feel  toward  a  blood  relation,  an  aunt.  For  such 
things  she  needed  a  chum,  a  friend  of  her  own  age.  She 
could  talk  to  no  other  about  such  subjects.  ,  .  . 

However,  things  could  not  wait  any  longer.  She  must 
write.  Three  and  a  half  years  did  not  make  much  difference 
in  her  life.  She  was  young.  But  in  her  father's  life,  what 
a  difference  these  years  must  have  made.  And  her  grand- 
father !     He  was  close  to  seventy,  if  he  was  still  living.  .  .  . 


358  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

She  hoped  he  was  living,  but  her  heart  palpitated  in  sudden 
alarm.  They  had  not  heard  of  her  in  three  and  a  half  years. 
They  had  not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  her  whereabouts,  or 
how  she  was  getting  on.  It  might  have  driven  the  old  man 
to  his  grave.  And  her  father  was  so  helpless  since  her 
mother's  death.  He  had  come  to  look  up  to  her  grandfather 
in  all  matters  of  importance,  in  all  decisions.  What  would 
become  of  him  now  ?  What  had  become  of  him  ?  And  Rob- 
ert! He  was  a  man  now.  She  hoped  he  had  learned  some 
kind  of  a  trade.  She  hoped  he  was  looking  after  his  father 
a  bit.     Father  needed  looking  after  badly.  .  .  . 

It  was  three  o'clock.  There  was  hardly  any  business  at 
that  hour.  The  newsboy  brought  in  the  afternoon  paper  and 
laid  it  on  the  cashier's  desk.  Ruth  glanced  at  the  headlines. 
Just  then  a  customer  came  in.  She  laid  the  paper  aside  and 
walked  over  to  where  the  man  had  taken  a  seat,  to  see  if 
everything  was  in  order  on  the  table.  She  returned  to  the 
paper  presently.  She  looked  over  the  first  page  slowly,  turned 
to  the  second,  the  third.  .  .  . 

On  the  third  page,  under  a  three-column  headline,  was  a 
picture  of  two  children,  a  boy  and  girl.  Below  this  picture 
was  a  photograph  of  a  woman.  The  faces  of  the  three  were 
strangely  familiar.  She  had  seen  them  before.  .  .  .  She 
was  certain  she  had  known  them.  And  .  .  .  She  knew  them 
—  it  was  her  mother  —  herself  —  her  brother.  It  was  their 
pictures,  taken  long  ago.  It  was  the  picture  of  her  mother 
when  she  was  a  young  woman,  long  before  her  illness.  She 
remembered  the  place  where  the  pictures  were  taken ;  and  she 
remembered  herself  at  the  time,  a  little  girl  of  seven;  her 
brother  was  five.  .  .  .  But  what  were  the  pictures  doing  in 
the  paper,  in  a  San  Francisco  paper  ?  What  had  happened  ? 
What.  .  .  . 

She  was  reading  the  headlines.    They  read  like  fiction  — 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD  359 

conveyed  no  definite  meaning.  She  read  further  down  in  the 
story.  Her  father's  name  appeared  in  the  third  paragraph. 
.  .  .  What  a  strange,  roundabout  way  of  talking  of  her 
father.  Usually  the  papers  told  things  so  plainly.  She 
read  on.  .  .  .  The  paper  was  about  to  slip  from  her  fingers. 
In  her  mind  it  was  becoming  both  clear  and  dark.  Her  back 
felt  weak,  strangely  weak  —  in  need  of  support.  .  .  .  She 
nerved  herself  and  read  the  story  to  the  end.  The  tears  came 
with  a  rush.  .  .  .  And  then  came  thoughts,  quick,  flashing 
thoughts.  She  must  act,  act  quickly  or  it  might  be  too 
late.     She  hoped  it  was  not  too  late  already.  .  .  . 

Two-thirds  of  a  column  was  used  by  the  reporter  to  account 
for  the  putting  into  the  paper  of  the  pictures  of  three  un- 
named persons. 

The  reporter  told  the  story  leisurely  and  with  evi- 
dent relish  of  the  thrill  he  was  preparing  for  his  reader: 
Patrolman  Casey  of  the  Chinatown  squad  was  making  his 
usual  round  at  five  o'clock  that  morning  when  he  stumbled 
upon  a  man  who  sat  crouched  against  a  wall.  The  officer 
took  the  man  to  be  a  drunk  or  a  "  bo  "  who  was  taking  a  nap, 
and  poked  him  in  the  ribs  to  wake  him.  Instead  of  rising  to 
the  summons,  however,  the  crouched  figure  sagged  and  fell 
to  one  side.  The  patrolman  took  a  close  look  and  saw  that 
the  man  was  dead.  He  ordered  the  wagon  and  the  corpse 
was  taken  to  the  morgue.  As  they  were  undressing  him  they 
found  a  leather  pouch  carefully  pinned  to  the  inside  of  his 
shirt.  For  a  moment  the  morgue  attendants  and  the  police 
had  visions  of  a  miser  who  hugged  his  treasures  while  dying 
from  starvation.  But  when  they  opened  the  pouch  they  made 
a  different  discovery.  The  pouch  was  stuffed  with  papers  — 
pages  with  childish  scrawls  on  them.  Among  the  papers  were 
several  letters  evidently  by  a  wife  to  her  husband,  and  two 
photographs,  one  of  a  woman  and  the  other  of  two  children. 


36o  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

From  the  contents  of  the  letters  the  police  believed  that  the 
name  of  the  man  found  dead  was  Fred  Conrad  and  that  he 
came  from  New  York.  .  .  . 

On  a  marble  slab,  wrapped  tightly  in  a  white  sheet,  the 
body  of  Fred  Conrad  looked  so  thin  and  shrunken  that  for  an 
instant  Ruth  thought  it  could  not  be  her  father.  But  the  face 
and  head  were  his ;  she  knew  them  at  once.  The  police  and 
morgue  officials  were  standing  beside  her  as  she  was  making 
the  identification  and  she  fought  hard  to  maintain  an  appear- 
ance of  calmness.  .  .  .  They  handed  her  the  leather  pouch 
with  the  papers,  pages  from  hers  and  Robert's  school  tablets 
when  they  were  learning  to  write.  .  .  .  The  letters  were  in 
her  mother's  handwriting.  She  called  for  the  pictures.  A 
policeman  telephoned  to  the  newspaper  and  the  reporter 
promised  to  be  there  with  the  photographs  directly.  The 
police  recommended  an  undertaker  to  her  and  while  waiting 
for  the  pictures,  she  telephoned  to  him. 

She  would  have  her  father  to  herself  at  least  one  whole 
day  and  she  set  the  funeral  for  the  third  morning.  She  spent 
the  entire  next  day  in  the  chapel  of  the  undertaking  estab- 
lishment sitting  beside  the  open  coffin.  She  leaned  over  her 
father's  head  and  face  and  sobbed  her  story  out  to  him.  She 
gazed  at  the  eyeballs,  which  protruded  stark  from  under  the 
closed  eyelids,  with  painful  yearning,  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  extract  from  them  the  story  of  her  father's  life,  of  his 
wanderings  in  those  three  and  a  half  years  since  she  had 
seen  him.  What  had  brought  him  to  California?  Had  he 
knowledge  that  she  was  in  San  Francisco?  Had  he  sought 
her?  It  dawned  upon  her  that  he  must  have  sought  her  — 
sought  her  all  these  years.  .  .  .  Yes !  And  she  had  not  given 
him  any  clue.     If  she  only  had.  .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  evening  when  she  heard  steps  in  back  of  her. 
She  thought  the  undertaker  had  come  in  for  something  and 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD  361 

did  not  move.  Some  one  touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  a 
policeman. 

"  A  man  to  see  you,  Madam.  He  says  he  is  your  brother," 
the  officer  spoke  softly. 

Ruth  did  not  gather  the  import  of  his  words,  but  started 
for  the  door.  Just  then  the  curtains  parted.  Her  brother 
was  coming  to  meet  her.  .  .  . 

Robert  had  not  come  alone  to  claim  his  father's  body. 
With  him  was  a  friend  and  neighbor,  Oscar  Colson.  Colson 
had  taken  out  a  claim  on  the  same  day  Robert  had,  and  they 
were  given  homesteads  next  to  one  another.  Their  home- 
steads were  three  hundred  miles  or  so  northeast  of  San  Fran- 
cisco and  had  they  been  on  the  land  that  day  they  would 
probably  never  have  seen  the  newspaper  with  the  story  about 
Fred  Conrad's  death  and  the  pictures.  But  Robert  and  his 
friend  were  in  the  valley  just  then.  It  was  the  canning  season 
and  they  had  come  out  to  work  in  a  cannery  and  fortify  them- 
selves for  the  winter. 

Colson,  or  Carlsen  as  his  real  name  was,  was  older  by 
eight  or  ten  years  than  Robert.  He,  too,  had  come  from  New 
York  where  he  had  been  a  waiter  in  one  of  the  best  known 
hotels.  The  son  of  a  Swedish  farmer,  the  call  to  the  land,  to 
a  quiet,  settled  life,  proved  stronger  than  the  lure  of  Broad- 
way and  the  white  lights,  and  he  came  out  to  pioneer  for  his 
farm.  Colson  had  become  greatly  attached  to  his  young 
neighbor. 

When  Robert  showed  him  the  newspaper  telling  of  his 
father's  tragic  death,  Colson  at  once  offered  his  services. 
He  would  go  with  Robert  to  the  city.  He  would  advance 
him  the  little  cash  he  had  and  by  putting  their  capital  to- 
gether they  might  be  able  to  meet  the  expense  of  a  private 
funeral.  .  .  . 

But  when  Colson  saw  Ruth  and  Robert  in  each  other's 


362  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

arms,  he  quickly  concluded  that  it  was  best  for  him  to 
vanish  until  the  next  day.  He  knew  something  of  Ruth. 
Robert  had  told  him  of  her  disappearance  and  how  their 
father  had  gone  in  search  of  her.  He  inquired  of  the  under- 
taker whether  everything  had  been  properly  arranged  for 
Fred  Conrad's  burial  and  was  answered  in  the  affirmative. 
He  then  requested  that  his  friends  be  told  that  he  would  be 
in  plenty  of  time  for  the  funeral  the  next  morning,  and  slipped 
out  quietly. 

Ruth  and  her  brother  sat  through  the  greater  part  of  the 
night  on  the  bed  in  her  small  room  and  talked  and  wept  on 
one  another's  shoulder,  and  kissed  each  other.  Robert 
brought  her  word  from  their  grandfather.  Gottfried  was 
alive.  Indeed,  he  was  pioneering  with  his  grandson  in  spirit 
—  and  in  cash.  His  grandfather  had  been  helping  him  with 
money  from  the  first  week  he  settled  on  the  land.  And  though 
the  land  was  now  yielding  him  a  livelihood,  Gottfried  was  still 
sending  him  his  weekly  stipend,  occasionally  even  adding  an 
extra  dollar.  This  was  to  go  toward  the  house  which  he 
was  planning  to  put  up  the  following  spring. 

Robert  described  his  farm  to  Ruth.  It  was  still  a  bare  tract 
located  on  a  hillside  on  the  Eastern  slope  of  the  Sierra  Moun- 
tains. He  had  built  a  little  barn  for  his  horse  and  a  shack 
which  he  called  a  house  for  himself.  But  he  had  been  saving 
money  for  a  real  house  and  they  would  put  it  up  during  the 
coming  winter.  Of  course  they  would  build  the  house  by 
themselves.  The  neighbors  —  there  were  half  a  dozen  of 
them  within  a  radius  of  fifteen  miles  —  might  lend  a  helping 
hand,  but  they  would  hire  no  mechanics  of  any  kind. 

He  described  the  boundaries  of  his  homestead.  There 
was  a  mountain  stream  at  the  edge  of  it  —  no  trouble  about 
water.  As  for  the  view,  it  was  really  superb.  She  had  never 
seen  sunsets  like  they  had  here.    He  and  Colson  often  stood 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD    363 

in  front  of  his  little  shack  and  watched  the  sun  sink  between 
the  clustered  peaks  in  the  distance,  too  deeply  moved  for 
speech.  He  had  named  his  homestead  Sunnyhill  Ranch. 
...  It  had  been  his  fond  dream  that  his  father  would  spend 
his  old  age  there,  that  they  would  all  get  together  on  that 
ranch.  .  .  . 

"  You  remember  how  fond  father  was  of  California.  He 
wrote  to  us  from.  ..."  The  rest  of  Robert's  words  were 
lost  in  sobs.  .  .  . 

Colson  showed  up  in  the  morning  and  the  three  followed 
the  hearse  in  a  single  carriage.  ...  As  they  were  nearing  San 
Francisco  on  the  way  back  from  the  cemetery,  the  afternoon 
was  well  advanced.  Colson  produced  a  time  table.  He 
thought  he  would  take  the  six  o'clock  train  for  Sacramento. 
That  would  enable  him  to  catch  the  train  from  there  to  his 
place  of  work.  He  would  get  there  about  eleven  o'clock, 
would  have  a  good  night's  sleep  and  be  on  the  job  again 
in  the  morning.  He  did  not  say  a  word  about  Robert  going 
or  staying.  ...  An  awkward  silence  followed.  The  meeting 
of  brother  and  sister  had  introduced  a  new  angle  into  the  sit- 
uation. It  was  something  to  think  of.  And  Ruth  was 
thinking.  In  fact  she  had  thought  it  out  already.  Robert 
expected  to  save  from  his  work  in  the  cannery  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  His  friend  Colson  would  save  as 
much;  three  hundred  dollars  between  them.  Ruth  had  nearly 
six  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank  —  her  savings. 

When  the  carriage  reached  Market  Street,  the  cabman 
asked  where  he  was  to  drive  them. 

"  To  the  office  of  the  Western  Pacific,"  Ruth  said  quickly. 

Robert  gazed  at  her  questioningly.  Colson,  too,  was  at 
attention. 

"  What  do  you  want  at  the  Western  Pacific?  "  heir  brothiei: 
Anally  asked... 


364  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

"  I  want  three  tickets  for  Sunnyhill  Ranch,"  she  said. 
"  We  want  to  start  as  early  as  possible  to-morrow." 

*'  But  you  don't  understand,"  Robert  attempted  to  explain. 
"  We  didn't  come  direct  from  home.  We  work  in  the  valley 
now.  The  cannery  is  nearly  two  hundred  miles  this  side  of 
Sunnyhill." 

"  I  know,"  Ruth  said  and  a  smile  came  into  her  hazy  eyes, 
"  I  know;  but  you  are  not  going  back  to  that  cannery.  You 
are  not  going.  ..."  Her  breath  was  short.  She  looked  at 
her  brother  and  swallowed  hard. 

"  You  remember,"  she  finally  gained  control  over  her 
throat,  "  you  told  me  last  night  that  grandfather  was  pioneer- 
ing with  you  in  spirit  —  in  cash.  Well,  I  too  wish  to  pioneer 
with  you,  though  it  is  almost  too  late  —  you  have  already  done 
nearly  all  of  the  pioneering.  ...  I  have  six  hundred  dollars 
in  the  bank.  I  shall  get  it  out  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing. Build  your  house  —  your  houses,"  she  corrected  her- 
self, gazing  at  Colson.  "  I  would  like  to  help  you  build 
them  —  To  cook  your  meals  for  you,  if  nothing  else.  .  .  ." 
She  had  meant  the  last  words  as  a  jest,  but  her  laugh  was  un- 
successful.    Tears  were  choking  her. 

Colson  had  meant  to  protest.  He  could  not  accept  money 
from  a  strange  woman,  even  if  she  was  the  sister  of  a  friend 
of  his.  .  .  .  He  would  stay  behind  and  work  and  earn  his 
own  money.  .  .  .  But  he  did  not  say  all  this.  This  was  no 
time  for  it.  Ruth  had  collapsed  utterly  and  he  helped  his 
friend  bring  his  sister  back  to  herself,  quiet  her.  He  was 
greatly  shaken  by  the  girl's  grief,  by  the  whole  drama.  .  .  . 
His  own  nerves  were  on  the  verge  of  snapping.  .  .  .  His 
protest  would  wait.  .  .  . 

The  automobile  stage  passed  within  five  miles  of  Sunny- 
hill Ranch ;  the  nearest  railway  station  was  forty  miles  away. 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRED  CONRAD    365 

Robert  had  asked  his  grandfather  to  determine  the  day  he 
would  leave  New  York  two  weeks  in  advance  and  to  write  to 
them.  Sunnyhill  Ranch  was  not  in  telegraphic  or  telephonic 
communication  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  Even  the  mails 
were  irregular.  His  grandfather  must  write  therefore  in 
plenty  of  time  for  an  answer  to  reach  them.  Gottfried  re- 
plied, setting  the  date  when  he  would  start  for  the  West  and 
Robert  awaited  the  stage  and  gave  the  chauffeur  instructions 
to  be  on  the  lookout  for  his  grandfather  and  to  bring  him 
on.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  had  written  what  train  he  planned  to  take  from 
Chicago  and  when  that  train  was  due  to  reach  his  Cali- 
fornia destination  —  the  agent  in  New  York  had  figured  it 
out  for  him.  Robert  and  Colson,  however,  agreed  that  it 
would  be  wiser  for  them  not  to  be  too  precise.  Robert  would 
drive  out  and  meet  the  stage  a  day  ahead  of  the  schedule,  so 
that  in  case  Gottfried  was  put  on  a  faster  train  he  would  not 
find  himself  walking  the  five  miles  from  where  the  stage  would 
leave  him  to  their  ranch. 

The  stage  passed  the  nearest  point  to  his  ranch  at  noon 
and  Robert  was  up  bright  and  early  and  made  ready  for  the 
brief  journey.  He  curried  the  horses  with  great  care; 
oiled  the  harness  and  put  several  bolts  in  the  wagon  where 
they  were  needed.  Ruth  was  waiting  with  dinner.  Colson 
was  keeping  her  company.  They  were  all  under  too  much  of 
a  strain  to  work. 

About  two  o'clock  Robert  returned  —  alone.  Gottfried  was 
not  to  be  expected  now  before  the  next  day.  Colson  thought 
that  there  was  a  likelihood  of  his  not  coming  even  until  the 
day  after.  There  is  a  slow  train  from  Chicago  and  it  is 
policy  with  the  railroad  to  have  that  train  well  filled.  Unless 
a  passenger  is  on  his  guard  the  ticket  man  is  sure  to  direct 
him  to  this  slow  train. 


366  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

They  worked  little  that  afternoon.  Colson  had  a  railway 
time-table  and  map  and  he  and  Robert  kept  following  the 
train  on  which  his  grandfather  was  supposed  to  be  from 
station  to  station  along  the  map.  There  Gottfried  would  eat 
his  supper  —  there  he  would  retire  for  the  night  —  there  he 
would  get  up.  .  .  . 

They  were  up  earlier  than  usual  the  next  morning,  but 
the  time  seemed  to  be  moving  slower  than  ever.  Finally 
Robert  left.  He  tried  to  look  calm  but  he  was  not.  Dinner 
was  ready  and  Ruth  had  set  the  table.  She  had  laid  four 
plates  and  the  arrangement  was  different  —  Gottfried  was  to 
sit  at  the  head.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  quarter  to  one.  Robert  was  to  be  given  at  least 
another  forty-five  minutes.  He  could  hardly  get  back  before 
one-thirty.  .  .  .  Colson  thought  he  would  go  down  to  the 
spring  for  fresh  water.  ...  He  wanted  Gottfried's  approval 
of  their  spring  water.  .  .  .  Colson  was  certain  that  he  had 
never  drunk  better  water  in  all  his  life,  anywhere.  .  .  .  Ruth 
would  not  remain  alone  in  the  house.  ...  Time  was  creep- 
ing dreadfully  slow.  .  .  .  She  went  down  with  him. 

They  purposely  lingered  on  the  way.  They  wanted  to  have 
to  wait  as  little  as  possible  when  they  returned  to  the  house. 
.  .  .  They  lagged  a  little  too  long  —  or  maybe  Robert  was 
making  faster  time  than  usual.  .  .  .  The  rattle  of  wheels  was 
distinctly  audible.  They  walked  faster.  The  team  was 
coming  up  the  narrow  road  to  the  house.  There  were  two  on 
the  wagon.  .  .  .  Ruth  sat  down  her  pail  of  water  and  ran. 
She  reached  her  grandfather's  side  just  as  Gottfried  had  set 
foot  on  the  ground.  .  .  . 


BOOK  IV 
THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  HOUSEW ARMING 

CHARLOTTE  CRANE  was  humming  as  she  moved 
about  from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  other,  straight- 
ening the  linen.  Thirty  people  in  all,  every  member  of  the 
families  of  Robert  Conrad's  half-dozen  neighbors,  would  be 
present  at  the  housewarming.  They  could  not  possibly  be 
accommodated  in  the  small  dining-room  and  the  tables  were 
set  in  front  of  the  house  under  the  open  sky.  Half  a  dozen 
yards  away,  Ruth  was  busying  herself  at  the  stove  in  her 
kitchen  of  four  posts  and  a  roof. 

Charlotte  Crane,  nineteen  years  old,  was  the  daughter  of 
one  of  Robert's  neighbors,  Edmond  Crane.  She  was  already 
considered  a  part  of  the  Conrad  family.  In  the  fall  she  and 
Robert  would  be  married.  She  had  come  over  the  day  before 
to  help  Ruth  prepare  for  the  party  that  was  to  celebrate  the 
completion  of  the  house.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  faint  rumble  in  the  distance.  It  died  away 
and  then  again  became  audible.  Charlotte,  accustomed  to 
mountain  silences  and  mountain  noises,  quickly  distinguished 
the  pounding  of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  clatter  of  wheels.  She 
stopped  in  her  work  and  searched  the  hills  with  her  gaze. 
Robert  was  passing  and  she  called  to  him.  In  a  few  moments 
they  discerned  a  team.  They  could  not  make  out  the  color 
of  the  horses  and  were  speculating  as  to  which  one  of  their 
neighbors  would  be  the  first-comer. 

Gottfried  Conrad  came  up  with  an  armful  of  wood  and  laid 
it  at  his  granddaughter's  feet,  in  front  of  the  stove.     He 

369 


370  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

beamed  at  her  fondly  as  he  threw  back  his  shoulders  and 
straightened  out  his  arms.  In  his  corduroy  trousers,  blue 
shirt,  and  heavy  boots,  Gottfried  presented  a  strange  ap- 
pearance. They  were  such  a  contrast  to  the  city  clothes  Ruth 
was  accustomed  to  see  her  grandfather  in.  She  smiled  every 
time  she  saw  him,  despite  the  fact  that  Gottfried  had  been 
wearing  these  clothes  for  three  weeks  now,  ever  since  his 
arrival  from  New  York. 

Gottfried  observed  Robert  and  Charlotte  gazing  intently 
ahead  of  them  as  if  studying  a  far-distant  object.  He  sur- 
mised that  some  one  was  coming  and  started  toward  his  grand- 
son to  inquire.  Robert  had  his  arm  about  the  girl's  waist. 
Gottfried  stopped,  gazed  at  the  couple  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  about  noiselessly  and  walked  away  in  the  opposite 
direction.  He  was  filled  with  a  tender  happiness.  'Twas 
thus  he  had  dreamed.  ...  It  was  more  than  he  had  expected, 
more  than  he  had  hoped  for.  .  .  . 

Presently  the  team  became  visible.  The  Erasers  were  com- 
ing. A  shout  of  delight  came  from  Robert.  The  Erasers 
were  his  nearest  neighbors  and  they  had  been  exceedingly 
friendly  to  him,  George  Eraser  had  got  the  title  to  his 
land  only  two  years  ahead  of  Robert  Conrad  and  Oscar  Col- 
son.  He  had  been  a  carpenter  in  a  Pennsylvania  town. 
During  a  prolonged  strike  in  his  trade,  he  drifted  West  in 
search  of  work.  In  Sacramento  one  day  he  read  of  a  new 
tract  of  land  which  the  government  had  thrown  open  to  set- 
tlers and  he  took  out  a  claim.  It  was  a  risky  thing  to  do 
for  a  man  with  a  family  to  support,  but  he  was  sick  of 
strikes.  He  wrote  his  wife  to  shift  as  best  she  could  for  her- 
self and  children  for  a  year  or  so  and  then  he  would  be  able 
to  help.  It  was  not  one  year,  but  three,  that  the  woman  had 
to  shift  for  herself  and  family,  but  they  had  a  farm  now  and 
the  abrasions  those  three  years  had  made  were  healed. 


THE  HOUSE  WARMING  371 

George  Fraser  had  proved  himself  of  especial  value  to  Rob- 
ert in  the  building  of  his  home.  He  became  his  architect,  as 
it  were.  Robert  frequently  acknowledged  the  fact  that  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  erstwhile  carpenter,  his  house  might  not 
yet  have  been  completed.  Robert  knew  so  little  about  build- 
ing. 

Mrs.  Fraser  donned  an  apron  as  soon  as  she  arrived.  She 
would  not  be  treated  as  a  "  guest."  She  explained  their  early 
arrival  by  her  desire  to  help  with  the  cooking  and  baking. 
The  party  must  be  a  success  and  the  girls  really  had  too 
much  to  do  to  make  it  so.  Mrs.  Fraser  commandeered  her 
daughter  Edna,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  to  assist  Charlotte,  while  she 
herself  went  into  the  "  kitchen  "  to  help  Ruth,  or  rather  to 
turn  the  girl  into  her  helper. 

Old  man  Fraser,  meantime,  was  unpacking  dishes  and 
pans.  He  had  brought  a  box  full  of  them.  The  Conrad 
household  was  so  young;  he  thought  they  would  need  them. 

"  But  where  is  Willy?  "  Robert  asked,  missing  the  Fraser 
boy. 

"  There  he  comes,"  Gottfried  said,  pointing  down  the  road. 
Willy,  a  lad  of  nine,  was  coming  astride  a  burro  which  his 
father  had  just  bought  him,  and  seemed  to  be  enjoying  the 
antics  of  the  donkey  hugely. 

There  was  a  busy  hour  and  a  half  for  Gottfried  while  the 
guests  were  coming  in.  He  helped  them  put  up  their  horses, 
fed  them.  ...  It  was  so  long  since  he  had  fed  a  horse  that  he 
remembered  it  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream.  It  was  back  in  Ger- 
many at  his  stepfather's.  The  memory  of  it  was  so  far  away 
it  seemed  to  him  that  it  could  not  be  possible  that  he  was  once 
the  boy  he  was  now  recollecting.  .  .  . 

The  children  had  grouped  themselves  on  one  side  to  play, 
and  the  women  were  buzzing  about  Ruth  and  Charlotte,  lend- 
ing a  helping  hand.    The  men  were  gathered  about  one  of  the 


372  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

wagons  and  were  discussing  the  future  of  their  little  commu- 
nity. They  must  take  action  soon  about  getting  a  school  of 
their  own.  Some  of  the  children  would  soon  be  of  school 
age;  others  had  not  yet  outgrown  the  age  when  they  still 
should  be  studying.  It  was  no  way  to  do  things.  They 
ought  to  select  a  committee  to  go  down  to  the  county  seat  and 
take  the  proper  steps,  the  proper  action. 

One  or  the  other  of  the  men  from  time  to  time  turned  to 
Gottfried  for  his  approval  of  some  suggestion  that  was  made. 
Although  most  of  the  people  had  met  Gottfried  but  once,  on 
the  first  Sunday  of  his  arrival  from  the  East,  they  had  a  good 
deal  of  respect  for  him.  They  sized  him  up  as  a  man  of 
intelligence.  His  speech  was  brief  and  incisive.  Besides 
he  was  the  grandfather  of  Robert  and  of  Ruth,  whom  they 
all  thought  of  highly. 

Gottfried  tried  to  listen  to  everything  they  were  saying, 
but  he  could  not  prevent  his  mind  from  wandering  to  things 
that  were  nearer  to  him.  He  was  thinking  of  his  son.  .  .  . 
It  was  only  since  coming  to  California  that  he  had  gathered 
the  details  of  Fred's  lonely,  tragic  death.  He  had  not  seen 
his  son's  grave  yet.  ...  It  was  still  far  away.  .  .  . 

A  question  had  been  asked  him  with  regard  to  organizing 
their  community.  Gottfried  answered  it.  He  spoke  a  little 
longer  than  was  his  custom.  He  found  himself  drifting  away 
from  the  subject  under  discussion  to  something  else,  some- 
thing that  was  on  his  mind,  had  been  on  his  mind  during  all 
the  days  that  they  were  preparing  for  the  housewarming,  for 
the  entry  into  their  new  home,  the  Conrad  House,  without  his 
son,  without  his  Fred.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  wish  at  all  to  cloud  the  happiness  of  the  day, 
he  was  saying,  but  life  and  death  were  inseparable.  .  .  .  One 
was  the  complement  of  the  other.  .  .  .  While  they  were  con- 
sidering the  choosing  of  a  site  for  a  schoolhouse,  it  might  per- 


THE  HOUSEWARMING  373 

haps  not  be  amiss  to  choose  also  a  site  for  a  burial  ground. 
In  the  long  run  they  would  have  to  consider  the  matter.  And 
if  they  chose  the  site  for  a  cemetery  now,  it  would  be  a 
great  kindness  to  him.  .  .  .  They  all  knew  of  his  son's  death 
—  how  he  had  died  before  they  had  reached  this  haven.  He 
was  buried  in  San  Francisco.  It  was  his  wish  —  perhaps  a 
foolish,  sentimental  wish  —  to  bring  his  son's  ashes  here,  to 
bury  them  in  the  midst  of  their  community,  within  sight  of 
their  homestead.  .  .  . 

Edmond  Crane  had  risen  before  Gottfried  finished  speak- 
ing, and  the  others  rose  with  him.  For  nearly  three  hours 
they  walked  through  the  fields  searching  for  a  proper  loca- 
tion, thinking,  studying  distances.  Finally  they  decided  upon 
a  little  hillock  a  short  way  from  the  main  road.  That  was 
to  be  the  community's  burial  ground.  On  the  way  back  they 
selected  a  committee  of  one,  for  the  present,  to  go  to  the 
county  seat  and  take  the  first  steps  toward  giving  their  newly 
formed  community  legal  status.  .  .  . 

Dinner  was  on  the  table  by  the  time  the  men  returned. 
Though  Ruth  was  busy  running  to  and  from  the  kitchen, 
Robert  managed  to  get  her  aside  for  a  moment.  In  a  few 
hurried  words  he  told  her  how  a  burial  ground  had  already 
been  settled  upon  and  of  their  grandfather's  desire  to  have 
their  father's  remains  moved  from  San  Francisco  and  buried 
within  the  shadow  of  their  home. 

Robert  hastened  away  without  looking  at  his  sister,  and 
Ruth  looked  about  for  her  grandfather.  Upon  finding  his 
tall  figure  among  the  men  she  gazed  at  him  with  moist  eyes 
for  a  moment,  and  went  back  to  her  work.  .  .  . 

The  dinner  lasted  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  When  the 
tables  were  finally  removed  and  the  ground  cleared,  the  chil- 
dren played  games,  while  the  men  and  women  talked  and 
jested.     Robert  and  his  grandfather  had  managed  to  slip 


374  THE  HOUSE  OF  CONRAD 

into  their  Sunday  clothes  just  before  dinner,  and  now  went 
about  among  the  guests,  looking  after  every  one's  comfort, 
making  sure  that  every  one  was  enjoying  himself,  was  happy. 
Oscar  Colson,  whose  role  was  midway  between  that  of  a 
guest  and  a  member  of  the  Conrad  household,  had  gone  to  the 
spring  with  Willy  Fraser  for  fresh  water.  They  returned 
with  it  and  Ruth  presently  appeared  with  a  bowl  of  lemonade. 
Some  one  called  for  a  song. 

"  Edna,  a  song.     Give  us  a  song!     Edna!     Edna!  " 

George  Eraser's  fifteen-year-old  daughter  was  famed  for 
her  voice  among  their  neighbors.  And  she  knew  many  songs ; 
she  had  learned  them  all  in  school  — "  back  in  the  East." 
It  was  not  until  she  had  nearly  finished  the  eighth  grade  that 
the  call  to  California  came  from  her  father. 

"  Edna,  Edna !  "  the  voices  kept  calling.  A  circle  formed. 
Men  and  women  sat  on  the  ground,  or  on  benches. 

Edna  stepped  forward.  She  was  thinking.  Presently  she 
began. 

A  wave  of  satisfaction  spread  over  every  face.  She  was 
singing  the  song  they  all  loved  so  well,  the  song  they  all 
thought  she  sang  best. 

"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  .  .  ." 

Edna  was  gazing  above  the  heads  of  her  listeners.  Her 
eyes  seemed  to  be  piercing  the  distance,  spanning  the  conti- 
nent back  to  that  town  in  Pennsylvania,  to  her  home,  to  her 
friends,  schoolmates,  memories  — "  back  East." 

"  We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne." 

All  of  the  men  and  women  were  humming,  swaying  —  all 
except  Colson  and  Gottfried.  Both  of  them  had  emigrated 
to  America  after  they  had  received  their  schooling  in  the  Old 


THE  HOUSEW ARMING  375 

World.  Colson,  however,  was  visibly  affected  by  the  song. 
.  .  .  Robert  was  sitting  with  his  arms  about  Charlotte's 
shoulders.  Colson  sought  Ruth's  hand  and  took  it  in 
his.  .  .  . 

Gottfried  had  heard  only  the  first  stanza  of  the  song. 
The  rest  was  lost  to  him  in  the  swaying  and  humming  of  the 
people.  He  was  gazing  at  them,  gazing  at  Robert  and 
Charlotte,  at  Ruth  and  Colson.  ...  He  was  grateful  — 
grateful  for  this  House  of  his.  He  was  happy,  and  he  was 
lonely.     If  Fred  had  only  been  there  among  them.  .  .  . 

The  song  was  ended.  There  was  applause,  approval, 
clamor  for  more.  Gottfried  rose  and  slipped  away  unnoticed. 
He  walked  around  the  house.  From  the  other  side  of  it  he 
could  see  the  place  they  had  chosen  as  a  cemeLcy.  It  was 
a  splendid  location,  right  in  the  course  of  the  sun.  He 
looked  at  the  sun.  It  was  sinking  among  the  hills.  More 
than  half  of  it  was  already  gone  below  the  snow-peaks  of  the 
Sierras.  .  .  .  Yes,  a  splendid  location.  .  .  .  Edna  was  sing- 
ing again.  The  strains  of  a  school  song  reached  his  ears. 
.  .  .  Before  his  eyes  shadows  were  hovering.  .  .  . 


THE  END 


in 


14  DAY  USE 

TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


